Tabula Rasa
by S. Faith
Summary: There’s a whole history you never would have guessed was there. Movie universe.
1. Prologue

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281 (Prologue, Chapters 1-24, Epilogue)  
This part: ~480  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: There's a whole history you never would have guessed was there.  
Disclaimer: Would I ever be able to express to you how much these characters, this universe, are not mine?  
Notes: I literally could not have done this without my lovely C.  
Author's request: If you have speculations about where you think this might be going, I ask that you refrain from making said speculations in the comments, so as not to spoil it, as it were. I will delete comments of that nature. Thanks in advance—much appreciated.

* * *

_No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;_  
_Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!_  
_Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,_  
_Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee._

—Alexander Pope, "Eloisa to Abelard"

* * *

_Prologue_

It all began with a thud.

Cleaning and unpacking were not usually tasks to look forward to, but in this case, he had been looking forward to both very much indeed. His task for the moment was to sort the incoming boxes into separate piles destined to go to specific rooms, and had just hoisted a heavier box into a stack for the master bedroom when he heard a substantial thud hit the floor directly above where he had been standing. He stopped what he was doing and turned to shout up the stairs, "Everything okay?"

"Fine," she called back. Her voice did not sound quite itself. "A… a box fell."

He furrowed his brow. "Are you sure?"

There was no response.

Curiosity and concern now piqued, he scaled the stairs two at a time and went to the room he knew her to be in. "Are you sure everything—"

He stopped short. As she came into his view, precisely which box had fallen registered with him.

It was a rather ordinary box, plain brown cardboard, battered at the edges from years of transfer from one location to another, nestled deep in the recesses of the top shelf in this bedroom's closet. It was nondescript in every aspect, unlabelled and otherwise not worthy of notice, but it had apparently been in the way of another box's fitting in perfectly on the top of the closet. She must have pulled forward in an effort to make it all fit nicely, and upon impact the contents had fanned out on the floor.

His blood went cold when he realised what was in that box. From her position seated on the floor, he could see she was quite scrupulously studying the letters, photographs, notebooks and journals, the scattered scraps of memories from another time, practically another life.

She looked from the papers in one hand to photos in another. Her skin had gone devoid of all colour; her eyes were wide as saucers in her desperation to make sense of what she was seeing. Her voice trembled uncontrollably when she spoke, her breath shallow and rapid as she turned her disbelieving eyes to him. "Mark," she began. "What the hell is this?"

He felt as if he could not move. He did not know where to begin, or if he could ever adequately explain; after all, it was not something he thought he would ever have to do.

"I didn't know this was here," he managed at last.

She said nothing more, only bore into him with an intensely troubled gaze.

He realised it was best to just begin at the beginning. He took in a lungful of air, exhaled it through his lips, and pressed a finger and a thumb into the corners of his eyes as he started to piece the story together for her. He would at least try.


	2. Chapter 1

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281  
This part: ~4,955  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 1_

They were unlikely friends, one descended from nobility and enjoying the prestige and privilege of the upper middle class, the other an ordinary suburban housewife, but friends they were and had been since university days. The former's husband was in the military and subsequently they moved a lot, but the friends kept in touch over the years. They'd each borne one child—one boy, one girl—and sometimes they even joked how some day the two of them might marry, though they usually then dismissed the idea as being too creepy, like Catherine de Bourgh and Anne Darcy plotting the marriage of their infant children in Austen's _Pride & Prejudice_.

Pamela Gardiner Jones had a daughter. Elaine Wentworth Darcy had a son. This made the parallel even creepier.

Eventually the Darcys—Elaine and her admiral of a husband, Malcolm—settled in the small country town of Grafton Underwood, in a rather large house that verged on being a mansion. The Joneses bounced from city to city mostly on Pamela's whim, which was easy for them to do because Pamela's accountant husband Colin could easily find work. This constant traipsing did not keep the families from staying in touch and visiting one another quite frequently.

The Joneses too came to settle in Grafton Underwood; Elaine had spoken highly of it enough and Pamela had liked it well enough during her frequent visits. The town boasted a small population, assuring everyone knew everyone else, while still being close enough to London for urban amenities.

The Jones girl was but six when her mother's flight of fancy landed her squarely in Northamptonshire. The Darcy boy was ten when the little hurricane called Bridget came into his life, a life that would never be quite the same again for it.

Mark Darcy's first conscious memory of her was a birthday party—his own birthday party, at which he was turning eight—and though he would swear the party was in the garden of the house in London, his mother insisted it was while they were already living in Grafton Underwood. He remembered her not so much as a child but as a blur, running around, hair in a whirlwind around her, stealing near-empty bottles of wine to taste, chocolate cake on her face and dropped in her wake, tearing off her dress to splash about in his paddling pool. He had tried to keep an eye on her as the adults seemed to have given up on trying to corral her, and for his attentiveness he had been praised and commended, and thorough, affectionate pecks on the cheeks by Pamela and Elaine were delivered, to his mortification.

The peck on the cheek by Bridget herself, however… he'd thought that was sweet.

From that point forward, he was often asked to keep an eye on the little girl; his intelligence, sense of responsibility and (most importantly) patience with her was evident, and she clearly looked up to him as she would a big brother. He did not resent this duty in the least. He thought of her in the same way he might have thought of a younger sibling. For her age she was far more daring than he was, and there were many times when he had, against his better judgment, relented to her wishes that he not tell her mum or dad what she'd gotten into. With her big blue eyes and winsome smile, it was hard to resist.

………

As they grew in age—he, fourteen and she, ten—he could be counted upon to take walks with her in the summertime to the town square for some sweets. He would ride his bicycle over and Pamela would be grateful as always to see him, because it meant she'd have peace and quiet for an hour during the day, while Colin was working. Bridget always persuaded him to buy her twice what she was supposedly permitted to have, and he always told himself that the next time he would not be so persuaded, but he always was.

She surprised him in other ways. He showed up earlier than expected for one of these walks and found her sitting under a tree in the garden, spiral-bound notebook on her knees, in which she was scribbling studiously. "Hi," he said, visibly startling her.

"Hi Mark," she said with a nervous smile.

"What are you doing?" he asked, dropping down to sit cross-legged beside her.

"Oh… nothing." Her answer was evasive; her hand shielded her notebook page protectively.

"'Nothing' looks an awful lot like furious writing of some kind," he said gently. "May I see?"

"You'll laugh," she said woefully, pushing her braids back.

"I will not, I promise."

Reluctantly she handed over the notebook. "I had planned on putting this away before you got here."

He took the notebook from her and flipped back to the beginning. She had an impressive number of pages written already. He honestly did not know what he'd been expecting, but what he found when he started to read was not it.

It was fiction. From what he could tell, it was an adventure story (with a little bit of fantasy thrown in) about two heroes; although they were twins separated at birth, one was fair and the other dark, and they each bore the same name of James, though one went by Jim, the other, Jimi. Their quest seemed to have something to do with finding a royal figure called The Lizard King.

What surprised him the most was how engaging, witty and original her writing was, and not just for her age; he had read professionally published novels that weren't as well-charted as her tale was. Before he knew it he was to the end of what had been written. He closed the cover then looked to her with what must have been a very thoughtful expression.

"Well," she said. "Thanks for not laughing, anyway."

"What?"

"It stinks," she declared. "I know it does."

"What makes you think I think that? On the contrary, it's quite good."

She drew her fine brows together, pursing her lips. "Now you're just making fun."

"Honest to goodness, I'm not."

She blinked a few times in rapid succession, wheels of thought clearly in motion. "You really like it?"

"I wouldn't lie about something like that," he said, "though I do have some spelling corrections and other suggestions, minor ones. But mostly I'm thinking about where this is going, where you got the idea for this…"

She smiled at last, assured that he was not merely humouring her.

"Well… there are these two dead rock stars that I just can't keep straight. And it's stupid, because one's white and the other isn't. You'd think that would seal it for me, wouldn't you? But then I got to thinking, what if they were connected in some way on some deeper level, like twins—"

He smiled and started to chuckle at her enthusiasm, a chuckle she clearly misinterpreted, because she stopped speaking at once.

"I'm not laughing at you," he hastened to say. "In fact, I think it's great how unfettered your imagination is on this."

She offered another smile. "So I should finish it?"

"Absolutely you should finish it," he said.

She looked a little sheepish. "Do you mind if I write some more now instead of our walk? And maybe you can help me and tell me what you'd change?"

"Sure, sure," he said. He moved a little closer so that he could look over her shoulder as she flipped the notebook open again. He directed her to flip back a couple more pages, then he pointed at a passage on the page. "You see here? You have 'exceptional' misspelled. There's a 'c' after the 'x'. And I think maybe this sentence is a little long. You might want to split it up so that your point doesn't get lost in there."

She nodded, making marks on the page at his direction.

As the summer months passed, she continued writing, and he continued to find less and less to bring to her attention.

She looked up to him with the admiration and idolisation a younger sibling has on an elder one; she always had. As she got older her attachment to him as a brother-figure seemed to intensify. During this summer, she had sprouted up considerably, which he knew signalled oncoming adolescence. He was already profoundly familiar with it in himself: his limbs had gotten long and gangly, seemingly too long for his body; the girls in his class (or even thoughts of them) had begun to produce embarrassing physical reactions at even more embarrassingly inconvenient times; the need to shave had gone from every other day to daily, which he supposed gave him twice the opportunity to try to perfect his technique (he hoped eventually he would not cut himself every day on the same spot, just at the corner of his jaw).

Sometimes instead of going to her house, her dad would drive her over to his for a spirited game of croquet on the lawn. She decided that the regular course was too dull, so she made up a new course for them to play, involving inclines, hedges, and particularly puddles if it had recently rained. One game even had them playing one-handed; another with a blindfold in place for the shot. He triumphed at the former; she was unexpectedly good at the latter.

His mother Elaine seemed concerned that he was watching over the girl because he felt obligated to do so, because he had always done so, even as he approached university age. He quickly dispelled her fears. "She's an interesting child," he said with a grin, "and if anyone can keep her out of trouble, I can." His mother was forced to agree that he had probably been exactly the positive influence she needed in her life from someone closer to her own age, and also noted the positive effect she (as a more free-spirited wild child) was having on was having on her usually serious son.

The reason for the grin: considering everything he knew about her, he could only think of her as interesting in the sense of the Chinese curse. This was not a criticism.

………

The breaks between his terms at Eton seemed destined to be spent acting as if he were her big brother. Near the end of the summer before his eighteenth birthday, before the start of university at the hallowed halls of Cambridge, he was asked if he could possibly be persuaded to accompany her to a night-time party, one to which she had begged to go, and one to which her father was adamant she would not attend alone. The success of the compromise hinged on his willingness to go, because they all knew he could be trusted with her safety, trusted to keep her out of too much trouble.

He did not need persuading; he readily agreed, mostly because he knew how much she wanted to go, how much she had been talking about it all summer.

Colin Jones was of course happy at the resolution, because he really had no desire to house a surly, resentful thirteen-year-old all evening. "If I can trust her with anyone," he said, "it's you, Mark."

Her elation was obvious at his attending the party with her. Upon arriving to pick her up, he noticed something very different about her: her hair was tidily pinned at the temples and cascading past her shoulders, free of their usual plaits or ponytails; she wore a pretty floral cotton sundress more suited to her age than a child; her lashes were darkened with mascara and her lips tinted with pink gloss. As she took the passenger seat, he noticed too that she smelled faintly of roses and sweet vanilla. She was as bubbly and chatty as ever, at least upon arrival at the party itself; she was much quieter than normal, stuck close by Mark's side and was attendant to him in an odd way, offering to get him punch and biscuits.

After an hour or so of such behaviour, it occurred to him what she was up to: she was acting years beyond her age, was trying to pass him off as a boyfriend, not because she thought of him in that way, but because he was probably the oldest person there, and there was some prestige (or so he heard) among teenaged girls who had near-university age boyfriends. Consequently, he had a feeling she would do something to push the limits of his patience, as well as doing something more to act older than she was; what that something might be, he did not know.

It didn't surprise him in the least, then, when she excused herself then made her way out into the twilight with one of her girlfriends, looking guilty the entire time; he followed and caught her moments from inhaling on a cigarette.

"What are you doing?" he asked in a stern tone that bespoke forced nonchalance.

She smiled in that way she'd always had. "Come on," she said. "I'm not a baby." Defiantly she met his gaze, brought the cigarette to her lips, and took in a long drag. She didn't choke or sputter. This was not her first time smoking.

He reached out his hand towards her. "Give that to me."

She cocked an eyebrow, an incredibly adult expression on this teenage girl. "Or what?"

Her friend giggled. Bridget merely stared at him, challenging him to a battle of wills. He was determined not to lose to a child, despite the costume she might have been wearing.

"Now," he said.

At last she blinked, pursed her lips then silently handed the lit cigarette to him.

In order to not seem the big, bad chaperone, he stayed out there and talked with Bridget and her friend. In comparison to Bridget, the friend was a little dim-witted, and not particularly subtle in wanting him to leave so that she could smoke again. Finally she gave up and excused herself, walking around to the other side of the house. Within a few minutes, he saw a plume of white drifting up from where she must have been standing around the corner. Not subtle, indeed.

"Mark," she began. The pout had not truly left her face since she'd been forced to hand over her fag. "I, uh, could really use some punch."

He knew it was a ruse, and he wasn't falling for it. "Let's go inside then."

"Will you get a cup for me?" she asked with forced brightness.

"I will not," he said evenly.

At that she went into full sulk mode again. "Come on, it's just a stupid cigarette, and it isn't like it's my first," she said.

"Not your first?" he asked. "So how long, then?"

"You can't tell me you never tried," she said, deflecting his query.

"I never tried. It's bad for your health," he said; she scoffed, as expected. He added, "And it makes one smell a little like an ashtray."

At that she blinked, as if she had never considered the detrimental effect to her personal appeal courtesy of lingering smoke. "I do not smell like an ashtray," she said defensively.

"Maybe not an entire ashtray," he conceded, "but there's a definite smoke smell about you."

"Well, I can't smell it."

"You wouldn't, of course." he said. "Cigarette smoke deadens your sense of smell."

She was clearly hanging on to the last threads of scepticism. "You're just trying to get me to do what you want."

"I'm not, and I'll prove it." He went to where some flowers were blooming at the border of the garden, and, saying a little apology under his breath, picked a particularly lovely dahlia to present to her. "Smell this," he said, bringing this to her.

She took it and held it under her nose, sniffing once, then a second time with a great inhalation. "I don't smell anything."

He kept his expression serious and neutral. "Well, there you are."

Technically, it was not a lie, as he never told her she should have smelled anything; dahlias did not have a scent. It however seemed to have had the effect he'd intended it to have. She looked down. "Oh."

"'Oh', indeed," he said. "Come on. Let's go have some punch."

She seemed to perk up a little bit after going back into the house—it was, after all, hard to suppress her gregarious nature—but upon leaving the party, settling into the passenger seat of the car Mark had driven in, she went silent again.

The evening sky was moonless, the countryside dark as they commenced the drive back to the Jones residence; all that could be seen in the heavens were the explosion of pinpricks of starlight scattered through velvet of night.

After some moments, he said when it became clear she was not going to speak, "I'm not going to tell your parents." Her head whipped around to look at him in obvious disbelief. "Well, I won't if you promise not to smoke again."

He'd expected complaints of being blackmailed into such action, vehement proclamations that she'd just get better about sneaking around, but instead she only looked out the window again and said, "I won't."

He flipped on the indicator and made a right turn into her drive, even though there was no one to be seen in any direction up the road; he was a new driver and determined not to screw it up, but she had teased him before about this compulsion. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her mouth curl up in a smile. No permanent damage done.

As he put the vehicle into park, took his foot off the brake, he turned to fix her with his most serious look. "I wasn't kidding before. If you lie to me, I won't see you again. I can't abide my friends lying to me. Do we have a deal?"

With every statement he made, she was fighting harder and harder not to cry, so hard her lip was quivering, but she nodded, sniffed and tried to offer a smile. It was feeble at best. He couldn't bear to see her so dejected; he reached across the console between them to give her an affectionate, brotherly hug as he had done often since she was little, which she returned. He patted her back reassuringly.

As he drew back from her, he said, hoping to lighten the mood, "By the way, your perfume is quite nice tonight."

"I'm surprised you can smell it over the smoke," she muttered, though it was clear his comment had put her in better spirits.

"The smoke isn't that strong on you," he admitted; in actual fact he could barely smell any smoke on her at all, had only wanted to startle her a little with exaggeration. "It's quite a lovely fragrance," he added.

He saw the faintest hint of pink tinge her cheek. "I saved up my allowance, and just got it," she said, then added belatedly, "thanks." Good spirits and relations fully in place, she smiled then rose from the car. "Thanks for bringing me tonight. As babysitters go you're not so bad." He knew she was teasing, knew she had never thought of him as anything but a brother.

She shut the door, and upon reaching the porch, she turned and waved. He waited until she was in the house before putting the car into gear and driving away.

………

It was not too many days after the party, during a rough game of five-a-side, that Mark found himself homebound due to two broken ribs and a bruised tailbone. He blamed no one but himself for being so stupid so near to his very first term at Cambridge, and was determined to follow the doctor's recommendations to the letter.

Bridget too was determined. She begged and pleaded until her mother relented and allowed her to ride her bicycle all the way to the Darcy home a few times a week to spend time in his company and, in her words, to make sure he wasn't bored. He had to caution her not to try to make him laugh too much because of his injury, and she always looked genuinely penitent when her silliness got out of control and made him laugh. In all honesty, the little bit of pain was worth it for her company, which he very much appreciated, even though he insisted she should have instead been enjoying the pleasant weather with her friends. She insisted in return that she'd rather spend time with him, as he was smarter and more world-wise than her friends were.

There were times when he fell asleep due to the influence of the painkillers; she came prepared with her notebook and wrote until he woke or until she had to leave, whichever came first.

"What are you going to be reading?" she asked, a few days before he was due to ship off to Cambridge.

"Well, eventually I think I'd like to read law," he said. "It's always been very interesting to me. Not sure as yet what kind though. Probably just, I don't know, something not too adventurous. Maybe corporate law."

She sputtered a laugh. "That sounds dull as dishwater," she said. "Besides, why help companies when you can help people? People that are suffering and starving and all that, like Bob Geldof did."

For a moment he thought that the person to whom she was referring was the person suffering and starving, but he quickly remembered the news of the previous winter and that current summer: relief efforts by big names in the entertainment industry that were drawing attention to the plight of people in Africa… and the movement was growing and spreading. He had paid little attention to the massive LiveAid concert (aside from listening to Bridget's constant obsession with wanting to attend the Wembley Stadium show) because he was, in general, not interested in popular entertainment, but the thought of so much being done to help the poor and downtrodden had plucked a chord in his heart.

"Hm," he said after a moment of careful consideration. "I hadn't really thought about aid of that kind from a legal point of view."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "I think you could totally do it. Stand up for all of the people who are malnourished because their country's leaders decide a gold-plated palace is a better use of their money… people who are treated badly by their leaders, imprisoned wrongly or even executed for really stupid reasons like talking about how badly they're treated… people who are threatened with deportation back to a country that wants to do this to them…. Who knows. Maybe you could get as famous as he did." She grinned.

Her little speech left him feeling as if a whirlwind had passed him by. "As who did?" he asked, having nothing better to say.

She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips at him. "Bob Geldof. Durr."

He chuckled, then grimaced at the jolt of sudden pain.

"Sorry," she said.

"Don't apologise," he said. "I doubt that he did it for the fame."

"No, I'm sure you're right," she said. "But he got it all the same, and for good reasons."

The subject of conversation quickly moved on to concerns more typical of a thirteen-year old girl, but for Mark, the seed was firmly planted: he wanted to pursue a legal career with a humanitarian goal. He went to the library and did research on Amnesty International to bring himself up to date on the current events in the arena of human rights. He felt driven by the thought of making a difference; passionate; angry with indignation that people were still treated so appallingly in the twentieth century, a century of advances in so many other ways.

Mark had found his calling.

………

Cambridge was the challenge he had thought it would be, and he was enjoying every moment of it. He'd told Bridget that he would have to focus very hard on his studies, might not be able to come home very frequently, so he had encouraged her to write to him to let him know how school was going, how she was doing. She did so, and at great length. He could expect to find a five page letter from her in his mailbox once a week, and she seemed to care little that he wrote back much less frequently and at far less length.

He spent most of his winter break that year at home, and he saw her briefly on Boxing Day when the families took the time to visit one another over supper; Boxing Day meant dinner at his own house and New Year's Day meant going to the Jones'. She was a bit taller, her hair a touch longer, but she looked generally unchanged to him: her face had begun to lose some of the roundness of childhood; she still had a girl's rather than a woman's figure despite wearing womanly undergarments (the straps evidenced at her shoulders). Not that it mattered to him. In his mind, she was still little Bridget to him.

"I'm sorry I don't get to write very often," he said upon seeing her, reiterating an apology with which he had prefaced many a letter to her.

She made a dismissive sound. "I know you're really busy. Preparing to defend the world against evil doesn't compare against studying for a French exam."

He chuckled, feeling a residual twinge in his side. He was fully healed, would suffer no long-term ill effects, but sometimes he was reminded sharply by his body that he actually had broken a pair of ribs the summer previous.

"You okay? How're your old bones?"

He laughed again. No twinge that time. "I'm fine," he said. "They're fine. So tell me about French. You didn't mention in your letters you were taking French."

She dropped onto the left side of a sofa; he took the right. She threw her head dramatically against the back of it, covered her eyes with her hand. "Ugh. Too depressing to mention. I'm terrible at it."

"I did passably well. Can even speak a little without needing to refer to a pocket reference."

"Too bad you aren't nearer," she said with a pout. "I would love a tutor."

He grinned. "Well, I'm sure you'll do fine in the end," he said.

"I wish I were that sure," she said. "I'm afraid I'm going to really blow it and I'll get stuck going to some crap uni."

It pleased him greatly that she was thinking of the future, considering university so seriously at age fourteen. His discussions with her regarding getting a good education must have really sunk in. "I'm sure there's someone closer than I am if you need a tutor."

"Yeah, but you know me better than they do," she said. "You know the little tricks that will make me remember things."

"They have tricks, too," he said. "Just have to give it a chance."

"I will," she said sullenly.

The call that dinner was ready ended their conversation, and they went to the Darcys' grand dining room, even though it was just the six of them at the eight person table. Mark had always found the idea of such a large table for such a small family kind of ridiculous, but it was a set his mother could apparently not be persuaded out of; he actually enjoyed the New Year's Day dinner better, because it was less formal (a buffet) and less private (less of a dinner and more of a party; other family friends attended as well). The Jones' house was smaller but infinitely more cosy, and he liked being there. He missed when in his youth he spent practically most of his summer days at this house. His own house felt downright cavernous in comparison.

The two empty chairs had been removed from the table and set off to the side. Colin Jones and Malcolm Darcy had the ends, their wives sat together on one side, and their children on the other. Dinner was, as always, delicious. It was not a strictly formal occasion by any means, but Bridget's irreverence for the protocol of fine dining made the meal thoroughly enjoyable. She had even elicited a chuckle out of his father and a fond smile from his mother. Mark thought that his mother must have considered her like a surrogate daughter.

As they left for the evening, Mark had no way of knowing that it would be the last time he would actually see her for a while. Almost two years, in fact, due to holidays visiting a grandmother in the north of England (hers), holidays with parents (the Darcys took their son to Scotland and Italy) and alone (he and a couple of mates spent most of a summer in France, where he got to become a little more fluent in the language), and other timing conflicts. As this time passed, her letters continued to arrive, though their content and frequency dwindled. He understood completely. As she advanced in her teenage years, her social life would get more complicated and she might be less likely to tell him everything; after all, there were details about his social life that he wouldn't have dreamt of telling her. Her school work would have gotten more difficult. So many things would be happening that she would hardly have time to send him status updates.

Seeing her again would be a surprise in more ways than one.


	3. Chapter 2

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,842.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 2_

Spring term was over, and as much as he loved school he was glad for it. He pushed the limits of the legally posted speed to get back to Grafton Underwood, back to his parents' house in record time. He dropped off his things, had a late lunch, then advised his mother he would return shortly.

"Where are you off to?" she asked.

"Paying a visit to the Joneses."

"Ah," she said. She didn't seem surprised. "Pam mentioned something about Bridget and a party. You should ask her about it."

"I will."

It took ten minutes at best to bicycle between houses; it took much less time than that to drive. He pulled up and around the circle in front of the place, pulling far enough off the road so not to get the fender dented by a neighbour's car, then came up the walk.

As he came into the garden, he spotted a young woman with her back to him, dressed in shorts and a tank top, kneeling on the grass beside a flower bed, thick leather gloves on her hands, long blonde ponytail lying upon her back, bobbing along to the music in her headphones. He idly wondered when the Joneses had begun to employ a gardener—one with quite an attractive figure, no less—and was about to scale the porch to knock on the door when the gardener turned her head to look at him.

"Oh my God! Mark!"

The gardener was in fact his little Bridget. He could not find the words to speak. She scrambled to her feet and to click off her Walkman, pulled her headphones off, and turned to face him fully before breaking into a sprint to throw her arms around him.

"It is _so_ good to see you!" she went on, her voice muffled into his shoulder; she had grown in height but was still only about up to his chin. With her hugging him so tightly there was no way he could have missed noticing that she had filled out in other ways, not that he hadn't already noticed (and now mentally scolded himself for).

"It's good to see you too," he said; he could not return the embrace because she had so quickly hugged him she had effectively captured his arms at his sides. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to be able to breathe again."

She giggled then stepped back, looking up to him with glittering blue eyes and a dirt-smudged face, wisps of blonde hair wildly framing it. She had, as always, long fringe that was just getting into her eyes, which she pushed aside out of habit. He supposed she would always have a slight softness to her face, but there was now no question that she had left childhood behind.

"Are you home for the summer?" she asked.

He nodded.

"You look just like I remember you," she said. "Taller than God, and everything."

At that he laughed, could only muse to himself that she looked nothing like she had when last he'd seen her.

"And here I am, covered in filth and pulling weeds… and getting you filthy, too. Sorry." She stripped off the work gloves and threw them down onto the walk. "Come on inside! Mum and Dad will be happy to see you too. Haven't seen you in far too long."

He followed her into the house, was directed to either the sitting room, where she said her father was watching the telly, or to the kitchen, where her mum was baking a pie. "I'm gonna go clean up," she said. "Be right back."

He decided to visit her father. He was watching sports on television, but upon his appearance, Colin rose to his feet with a great grin. "Mark! Good to see you, my boy! Been far too long. Have a seat, won't you?"

"Colin? Who's here?" It was Pam's voice.

"It's Mark," he called back, still smiling jovially, before turning back to his guest. "That's it, Mark. No escaping a glass of lemonade now."

Mark laughed. Within moments, Pam Jones appeared with a tall glass of lemonade, just as Colin had predicted. "I insist, have a drink. It's a warm day out there."

Mark accepted it and took a long draw from the top of the glass. It was more tart than sweet, but delicious all the same.

"Bridget's out in the garden," said Colin. Pam nodded.

"Yes, I've seen her already," he replied with a grin. "I didn't just let myself in."

"Not that we'd mind if you did," said Pam. "You're like family, Mark."

"She's really grown up in the last year or so," said Colin, clearly referring to his daughter.

Mark nodded. He didn't know why he expected her to look the way she had when last he saw her; he knew logically that she was growing up, but just hadn't anticipated what he'd seen today.

"So do you wanna go for a walk?"

It was Bridget's voice preceding her appearance, and when he saw her, he had a difficult time connecting it to the pretty young lady of fifteen who rounded the corner into the room: she was wearing a fresh pair of shorts, denim this time, and a tank that fit closely to her body. Her face was scrubbed clean and her hair had clearly been taken out of its ponytail and brushed out, then pulled back again. All the loose tendrils had been tamed.

"Sure," he said. "I'll just finish my lemonade."

"Isn't it a bit warm to be walking around?" asked her mum.

She made a dismissive sound. "It's not that bad out there."

"Maybe you should wear a hat," insisted Pam. "It's sunny."

She rolled her eyes as she turned to slip into her sandals. "I'll be fine, Mum. I'm not a baby."

It reminded him suddenly of that party, the one at which she'd tried to pass him off as an older boyfriend, when he'd caught her smoking, and despite himself he smiled, then laughed. To try to camouflage it he brought the glass to his lips and drained the rest of the lemonade from it.

"Let's have that walk, shall we?" he said, setting down the glass on the coaster and rising from his chair.

As they hit the front walk again, she popped a pair of sunglasses onto her face, then turned and beamed a smile up at him. "I'm just so glad to see you," she said.

"I'm glad to see you too," he said, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. With his button-down shirt, he felt very much overdressed. He decided to tease her a little, remembering what his mum had said to him. "I don't suppose this happiness to see me has anything to do with a party."

At this she laughed. "No, of course not." She was thoughtful a moment, then added, "Though if you could come with me I'd be even happier."

It was his turn to laugh. "Don't have to worry about you smoking, do I?" he asked, his tone semi-serious.

"No," she said emphatically. He looked to her, her fringe blowing back with the breeze. She looked back at him. "What?"

He shook his head, smiling again. "I can't get over how different you look from the last time I saw you."

She grinned almost bashfully, looking down at her chest. "Yeah. They sort of came out of nowhere."

He could not suppress another laugh. She might have looked like a woman now, but she was the same unpretentious, open girl deep down inside. "I didn't just mean that. You're taller, your hair's longer…"

"You have to admit, though," she said playfully, "they are a little hard to miss."

He hadn't wanted to spend too much time contemplating 'them', but she had rather fully blossomed in that regard in the year and nine months or so since he'd last laid eyes on her, as he'd already discovered when she hugged him. "Well," he said. "True."

Again she laughed. It was sweet and infectious; he smiled too. "It's kind of fun, making you turn all pink."

"Nonsense," he said, though her words had caused him to feel a little embarrassed; it was not right to contemplate the womanly curves of someone who had been like a sister to him since she was four years of age.

She slipped her arm through his elbow just at they arrived to their usual destination, the main thoroughfare in town, which for a town the size of Grafton Underwood was about what one would expect. Leaning into him, she asked, "Buy me some candy like you used to?"

"Oh, I see how it is," he said with a chuckle as she released his arm.

"Please?"

He had never been able to resist when she asked. "Pick something out," he said with mock resignation.

With a broad grin she pushed her sunglasses up into her hair then bounced to the candy shelf, grabbing a Dairy Milk bar almost instantly, but looking longingly at the chewing gum. "Oh, I'm just not sure," she lamented. "What do you think?"

He thought—was convinced, actually—that with the wide, innocent eyes, the slightly pouted lips, it was a ploy to get him to buy her both. Of course, it worked. "Have them both."

"Hee." She picked up a packet of gum and handed them both to him. She then sprung up on her toes and pecked his cheek. "Thank you."

As they walked home, she ate the chocolate bar, offering him a bite. He declined.

"You know, I lied a little before," she confessed.

"I hope not about the smoking."

She laughed. "No. I meant about you looking the same."

He furrowed his brows. "How on earth have I changed?"

"Well, your haircut's different," she said; he had begun to cut it cropped a little more closely around the back of his neck. "And your things there." She pointed to his sideburn. "They're shorter. And, well…" She blushed.

"What?"

"You're playing five-a-side more often, aren't you?" she said, glancing up to him with a smirk.

He did not know what to think of the fact that she had noticed changes to his own physique. He had in fact begun playing weekly games with his house mates, sometimes twice a week if weather permitted. He also regularly took to running for exercise. "I am."

After a few more steps, he heard her crinkle up the paper from her chocolate bar. They were nearly back to her house. He looked at her once more as she looked at him again, and he smirked; she had a smudge of chocolate right on the tip of her nose.

"What now?" she asked accusingly, though still teasingly.

As they stopped walking, he reached out and cleaned off her nose with his thumb. "Looks like you inhaled your chocolate bar," he explained.

She flushed bright red. "Oh, God."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "We all have to be enthusiastic about something."

She still looked sheepish as they stood at the bottom of the walk. "Oh, come into the house with me. Tell my mum you'll come with me to the party. Honestly, I'm fifteen, but you'd think from the way she talks she thinks I'm still ten."

"When is it?"

"Mm," she said reluctantly. "Tonight."

"You might have mentioned that sooner," he said jokingly.

"You'll still come?"

"Yes," he said.

He went back into the house to talk directly to Pam Jones, who was delighted that Mark was free to take her. "It's not that we don't trust her… we know she's a good child deep down inside, but she can be so impulsive at times, and some of her friends don't have the sense she does." He nodded. "Plus you know how she is when she can't have something she wants," she added conspiratorially. He knew all too well; he thought instantly of the chocolate/gum dilemma. "We try not to spoil her but… being our only child… it's hard not to."

He understood. He had found it difficult to refuse her, and she wasn't even related to him by blood.

………

Immediately after dinner, he got into his car and headed back for the Jones residence. She was ready, and she came running down the walk and to his car before he'd even had a chance to put the car into park and switch off the engine. She pulled the door open and sat in the passenger seat.

He didn't offer a greeting. He couldn't. Words eluded him: she had gone through yet another transformation, as if the one from earlier wasn't enough for him. Instead of neon, smiley faces and geometrical patterns so popular with teens today, she was wearing a classic sleeveless summer dress of light cotton with a rosebud pattern on it, not dissimilar to the one she'd worn the last time they'd gone to a party together, but with her more mature form now, it was a very different look on her. She was wearing makeup, a light dusting of brown shadow and a sweep of mascara that made her blue eyes pop, and her cheeks were coloured with a faint rose pink. Her hair was out of its ponytail, brushed out, slightly wavy and lying prettily on her shoulders.

"Let's go," she said, smiling at him, tucking her hair behind her ear.

He smiled, looking away and through the windscreen. "Right." He indicated then pulled away from the kerb. "You're the navigator. Tell me where to go."

"Yup." She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Mark?"

"Yes?"

"I know we write and stuff, but… I don't know. I don't feel like I have the latest on you. How's uni?"

"Uni's fine," he said, relaxing a little after that initial surprise. "I never thought it'd be easy, and it's not, but it… can be downright gruelling."

"Still have time for football though," she said. "That's good."

He nodded as she told him to make a right turn.

"And what about friends? I think you must have tons."

While he was open with her, he was not always so with others, especially people he did not know well. "I've got friends, don't worry."

"Who's your best friend?"

He thought a moment. "Probably Daniel."

"Ooh! Tell me about him."

"There's not much to tell," he said. He didn't want to make his womanising friend too appealing. "He's reading English lit. We play football together. We watch football together. Sometimes we go out for a pint."

"Do you, like, double date? There must be loads of pretty girls at Cambridge."

For some reason her question made him flush; she was clearly only asking out of curiosity. "We have in the past, yes."

"Do you have a girlfriend? I mean, you're nineteen, you should, right?"

"I don't, not right now," he said, not sure he liked this inquisition into his personal life. "Tell me about how school's going for you," he said in the hopes her attention would be elsewhere directed.

It succeeded. "Oh, I'm still miserable in French," she admitted. "I think I'm destined for anywhere but Oxbridge for uni. But I've done passably well in domestic science, which my mum is a real bear about, because she did so well and Granny was a domestic science teacher, after all."

She pointed to take the left in the oncoming fork in the road.

"We're nearly there," she continued. "Just the third drive on the left. Anyway. I'm doing awesome in classic English literature though. I love it, love it, _love it_."

He was not surprised in the least. "What about creative writing?"

"Oh, I have that next autumn. I can't _wait_."

He pulled into the third drive, one of those long country drives where parking the car meant pulling off the gravel and mostly onto the grass. He found a space near to the door, then disengaged the engine. They went towards the house; he could hear the music even before they got inside.

He reflected upon her appearance as she was enthusiastically greeted by her friends. If he thought she looked pretty before, she looked downright beautiful now. A natural extrovert, she was glowing in the presence of her friends, who all bounced and squealed that she'd been able to show up, after all. "Oh my God! Bridget's here!" said one friend excitedly. He recognised her as being the not-very-subtle smoker from the previous party. She then saw Mark, and her features went slightly disapproving. "And… _you_."

"That's Mark," she said in a scolding tone. "He's the only reason I was allowed to come tonight." Suddenly sensing he might take her words the wrong way, she added, hugging him around his waist, "He's one of my best friends, so if he isn't welcome, then we're leaving."

"As long as he doesn't try to swipe our ciggies out of our mouths," said the surly girl.

He thought uncharitably that he couldn't have cared less if this particular friend smoked herself into an early grave. "Do what you like if you're already hooked, but do it outside," he said.

The girl's attitude changed, and she relaxed a little. He realised she was not so much surly as defensive. She didn't want her attempts at adulthood to be snatched away from her. "I'm Tina."

"Mark. Obviously."

Tina allowed a smile.

"Mark goes to Cambridge," said Bridget proudly. "He's, like, super smart."

He chuckled. "I hardly think I'm 'super smart', but thank you."

"He's going to defend the world against injustice someday," she predicted with confidence.

"I'm going to try, anyway," he added.

There were a lot of people at the party, and before long the girl at whose house the party was being hosted had pulled her aside to show her the new record she'd bought. He had himself begun to field questions from those there who were a year away from uni; they were curious about how life was like in a place like Cambridge, what it was like to live away from home and so on. He had been talking for some time when he realised he had not seen Bridget since they'd arrived, and he excused himself.

It was not a large house and it did not take long for him to find her. She was holding court in a back room with a group of friends… which included young men who were obviously smitten with her. It should not have surprised him, but it did to an extent. It was clear she was popular amongst her peers; her presence at the party had obviously been the make-or-break for the party being a success or a failure. It was just strange to consider her as she was now. For the first time he wondered if she had a boyfriend, if she had been allowed to start dating.

"Hey Mark!" she said brightly. "Get yourself something to drink yet?" She held up her plastic glass, within which was a lurid red punch. "There's even beer."

He bristled. These kids were not of legal drinking age. "Beer?" he asked, then suddenly turned suspicious. "What are you drinking?"

"Just punch," she said innocently, but her smile made him wonder.

"Bridget," he said darkly. "May I see you over here for a moment?"

She rolled her eyes, stood from her place on the sofa, then set her glass down on the coffee table, giving him an inadvertent line of sight right down her dress. He looked away, but said, "Bring the drink, please."

Tina laughed. "Daddy's at it again."

"Oh, shut up, Tina," muttered Bridget crossly as she reached where Mark was in the threshold of the room. She gave him the glass. He took a sniff. This punch was definitely adulterated.

"Come with me," he said. He looked for the loo and quickly found it, bright in pale yellow and sunflower décor, and had clearly been cleaned for the party. He didn't want to lecture her in front of her friends. Just as she came in, he went around her and closed the door.

He turned to her, one hand holding the glass, the other somewhat involuntarily on his hip. "What's in this?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"Bridget," he said. "Your parents have entrusted you to me, to keep you safe and from doing something stupid like drinking before you should."

She huffed a sigh and looked away. "It's no big deal."

"It's a very big deal," he said angrily. "You don't even know what it is you're drinking."

"Does it matter?"

She could be very maddening. He knew this already, but had somehow managed to forget. "You're not thinking of the consequences."

"What consequences? I might get a little tipsy." She grinned impishly. "It's kind of fun."

He shouldn't have been surprised that she'd tried it before. "Consequences like not realising how much you've had to drink because it's masked so well in your punch, having a bit of a lie down and not waking up again thanks to alcohol poisoning."

"I think you're being a little alarmist," she said.

"I think I'm speaking from experience," he said. "Not me obviously. But I watched a friend get hospitalised and almost not make it, all because he thought he knew his drinking limits."

She looked a little surprised, but she was a champ at sallying forth. "Mark," she said. "I've had one sip on one glass of punch—hardly enough to send even me to Accident and Emergency. And how do I know this isn't something you're not making up to scare me? Who was this friend? When did this happen? On the hallowed grounds of Cambridge?"

"It was my friend Daniel, and no, not at uni, but when we were in France. He'd gotten hold of a bottle of illegal absinthe and…"

She still looked at him sceptically. "Honestly. It isn't as if I'm glugging down an entire bottle of vodka."

He sighed. "I will just take you home, then." He poured the punch down the sink then set the plastic cup down. "Come on, let's go."

"No!" she said. "Please."

"Bridget." His tone got darker. "I can't allow you to drink. It's new and fun to you, but if I brought you home tipsy your parents would never let me see you again."

This was the thing that got her attention. The corners of her mouth pulled down in a sad frown; her eyes went luminous. "I don't want that."

"I don't want that either, believe me." He took her hands in his and squeezed them. "Come on. There's got to be some cola or something here to drink, right?"

They filed out of the bath and she led him to the kitchen, where she found two cans of Coke and popped them open, handing one to him with a small smile, then lifting hers in a sort-of toast.

"Cheers," he said as he sipped.

Tension thus lessened, she got involved in conversation with other friends in the kitchen. He felt a tap on his shoulder, saw a boy closer to his own age standing there with a smile. "She's a cute little thing," he said quietly to Mark, instantly flaring protectiveness in him. "Bet she's a lot of fun."

Mark turned quickly. "What?"

"You spent an awful lot of time in the loo," he said, "and the younger girls are always so eager to please." He was grinning in a lecherous way that made Mark very uncomfortable.

"We were talking," Mark said angrily, trying to control the tone of his voice, "and she's just a child."

However, Bridget's head popped up in clear reaction to his raised voice, and she looked a little stunned he would do so, before forcing a smile on her face in response to whatever it was her friend was talking about.

"Well, if she's just a child to you, maybe I'll have a crack at her," he said.

Mark's glare in response was enough to send him away in the opposite direction where Bridget was, but just to be clear, he added, "I wouldn't."

He knew, of course, that she was not in fact a child; that much was directly evident in her figure. She was, however, immature in some ways, impulsive (as her mother had said) and easily persuaded (_'easily led astray' is more like it_, he thought with a smirk). His gaze found her again, still surrounded by her friends, but her role in their joint conversation had turned to observer, not so much participant. She looked up and met his gaze. He smiled at her. She smiled in return, but it was half-hearted at best.

Content that she was safely ensconced in her conversation, though, he decided to return to the loo for its intended purpose. As he rejoined the party he saw the boy with the lecherous grin, apparently named Anthony, hovering at her shoulder. Mark was on alert.

He needn't have worried.

Anthony tried putting his arms around her neck. She turned and pushed him away hard by his shoulders, saying, "Leave me alone."

"But Bridge," he said pleadingly. "Come on. Just a little snog?" He lunged at her again; this time she grabbed his shoulders and kneed him squarely between the legs.

"I said," she seethed, "leave me alone."

Her words were mostly drowned out by the roar of laughter and cheers of her friends. He had never seen her look so fierce or upset. She raised her eyes to meet Mark's. "I think I'm ready to go home now," she said coolly, then marched past him and out the front door.

He went over to where the practically prostrate Anthony was standing, his hands on his knees, still trying to recover from the blow to his groin. Mark said in a grave yet confidential tone, "I did try to warn you."

Anthony looked up, his expression somewhere between pained and surprised.

He met her at the car. He opened her door for her, but as she climbed in she said nothing, not a single word. Her expression was hard to read, but it was by no means a happy one. Mark began the drive home; he had his bearings so he did not need her to direct him back. He wished she'd talk to him all the same.

"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked, hoping to break the ice.

"What?"

"Defend yourself like that. Pretty impressive."

"Oh." She was quiet again. "Not something I learned. It just seemed the thing to do, and Anthony's a prat. Always trying to get his hands on me. Yuck."

"I'm sorry he upsets you this much."

"He doesn't," she said in a soft voice.

If it wasn't Anthony, it must have been his scolding her for drinking alcohol that put her into such a funk. He thought maybe it best to get off the subject of the party altogether. "You're still writing, I hope?"

She nodded, then remembered he was driving and added sulkily, "Yes."

He had hoped for more than just one word. Usually she was overenthusiastic about her writing, and his single question would have sent her off onto tangents and sub-tangents about what her characters were going to do next; he figured that would be the thing to snap her out of it. He carried on, hoping to land on something else. "And are you still watching that show you used to rave to me about?"

"What? Which show?"

"That animated show from Japan that you and your friends were all crazy about?"

She only rolled her eyes. "That was so over ages ago."

He realised he was zero for two.

"Read any good books lately?"

She huffed out a long, impatient sigh, punctuating it with an emphatic, "No."

He could take a hint. She did not want to talk. Nothing more was said for the rest of the drive, not that it was a terribly long drive; it just seemed that way for the silence.

He drove up to her house. He had barely stopped the car when she leapt out of the passenger seat, not saying a word as she bounded to the door and went inside. He sighed, though chalked it up to the mercurial mood swings of a teenaged girl. She'd be fine again in no time.

He decided he had to be sure, though, and so the next day, he drove the distance again between their houses, knocking on the door upon his arrival. Pam Jones answered.

"Hello Mark," she said gravely. "I'll warn you, she's in a mood."

He sighed. Perhaps he needed to make a peace offering. "Where is she?"

"Watching the telly." He knew where the telly was and wandered in that direction.

"Hi," he said as he came into the sitting room. Whatever it was she was watching, he did not recognise.

"Hi," she said, not looking up at him.

Thinking of her love of Cadbury, he said, "Thought I'd drop by and see if you were interested in a trip to town with me. Two chocolate bars, all yours, no questions asked, no protests offered."

She glanced up to him, then back at the television. "No. I'm watching this show."

"Oh, for God's sake, Bridget." It was her clearly aggravated mother, standing behind him in the hallway. "Don't be absurd. You've seen that ruddy show a hundred times. You don't have to be so rude when Mark's so kind as to offer to spend time with you, to look after you, busy young man that he is."

She rose to her feet, and though her eyes were teary, they were also defiantly trained on her mother. "Mum, enough, _please_! I don't need anyone looking after me anymore!"

"Right," said Pam. "Go on to your room until you can adjust that foul attitude. I'm tired of it." To underscore her words, she pointed up and in the direction of where Bridget's room was.

Bridget clenched her teeth in her aggravation, giving him a conflicted look before she bolted from the room, muttering, "Fine."

After she was gone, after the door to her room could be heard to reverberate throughout the house as it slammed, Pam Jones sighed. "I'm so sorry. She's so moody lately."

"I'm afraid today's sulk might be my fault," he said. "Do you mind if I go up and try to talk to her?"

"Be my guest," she said, "though don't be surprised if you make no headway."

He went up to her room and knocked on the door. "Bridget," he said gently.

"Go away," she retorted.

He turned the knob. It was locked.

"I said go away."

"Bridget, please let me in. I want to talk to you about the party."

After a few moments, of silence, he heard the lock click as she turned the knob. She only held the door open wide enough to reveal herself, and did not offer to let him in. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

"I'm sorry if I ruined things for you last night."

She said nothing, simply kept her eyes trained up at him.

"I should have talked to you before we went into the party… about drinking, I mean."

"God," she said. "You can stop now."

"Stop?"

"You don't have to do it anymore."

"Do what? Apologise?"

"No. Look after me. I don't need a babysitter anymore. Surely you have better ways to spend your time then to make sure I don't screw up in some way."

He blinked in his inability to comprehend what she possibly could have meant. Then it dawned on him. "Do you think," he began, "that I come and see you only because I feel like I have to?"

She did not reply, not at first, anyway. "Why else would you?" she said quietly. "You must have friends your own age, important things to do, school reading to get through, football to play, real parties with girls your own age and _beer_…"

"Bridget," he said. "I thought we were friends."

She sputtered a sob, but fought to hide it. "I thought so too."

"Then what on earth changed?"

She stepped back into the room, looking down. He followed her in, closed the door most of the way, sensing she wanted a little privacy. "You think of me as a child," she said at last. "A child you have to watch over, protect, scold…"

"What makes you think that?"

"I heard you talking to Anthony," she said. He remembered at once what he'd said to that boy: _she's just a child_. It wasn't his raised voice she'd been reacting to. It was the words themselves.

"Bridget," he said. "I only meant that you're—" He wanted to say _young_, or _younger than I am_, but both had connotations that he did in fact think of her as a child. He knew she was not helpless by any means, as she'd demonstrated… but he did feel protective of her. He cared about her. "You're not the sort of girl I'd take off to a loo to have sex with, as Anthony suggested."

At that her expression changed to one of surprise. "Did he really say that?"

"Yes," he said.

"If I'd known that I'd've kicked him harder."

At that Mark laughed before going serious again. "Bridget," he said. "I have never spent time with you because I was obligated to. I've done it because I enjoy being with you. I enjoy our time together. I always have—writing binges, crazy croquet, walks for candy, all of it—and I always will."

She sniffed, then launched forward to give him a hug. Anticipating it, he raised his arms and enfolded her in them, stroking her hair fondly. He could feel her sobbing into his shirt, but he sensed it was tears of happiness.

"Mark," she began, her voice muffled into his shirt.

"Mm-hm?"

She giggled. That was a good sign. "What sort of girl _would_ you take off to the loo to have sex with?"

He fought the urge to laugh, being as it was Bridget in his embrace. He stepped back from her pursing his lips, but he was afraid it was too late; she'd already seen his smile, evident in the way her eyes were sparkling. "I would not take any girl to a loo for sex. That's utterly tacky."

"Never ever?" she prodded.

He regarded her, considered the subtle shift in their relationship that had just occurred; they were more peers now than older/younger sibling. "I think I liked it better when we talked about your writing."

She giggled. "Oh, Mark, will you tell my mum I'm a presentable human being again? I don't really want to stay in my room all day."

"I'll consider it."

"Seeing as I really would like those two chocolate bars."

He reached for her hand and pulled her forward. "Your mother trusts my judgment," he said. "And if I say you've improved enough to warrant a chocolate bar or two, she'll abide by that decision."


	4. Chapter 3

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,508.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 3_

"Well, you said you liked it better when we talked about this."

Smiling, she handed him a spiral bound notebook. He wrinkled his brow, but accepted it all the same. When he opened it, he understood. It was another story.

They had planned to have lunch together in the Darcys' back garden a few days after the party; there was a small pond and verdant greenery, and she had thought a picnic on a blanket under the largest shade tree would be the perfect way to spend the afternoon.

She had shown up wearing her hair pulled up into a barrette at the crown of her head, and a long white cotton dress. When he enquired as to why she might wear a dress to a picnic, she simply explained it seemed the right thing to wear on such a summer day.

He had packed sandwiches, a container of iced tea, and a cold tomato, basil and mozzarella salad. She had, at his request, brought dessert, which she claimed she made herself: chocolate cupcakes. She'd reminded him with a grin that she had done passably well in domestic science.

"I thought you might like something to do," she went on.

"What, are you leaving?"

"No," she said with a chuckle. "But I brought another notebook with a new story. I might not be such great company if I get on a jag."

He speared a tomato slice along with a chunk of mozzarella, then ate it. "I've never had reason to complain about your company." With that, he reclined on one elbow, continued to eat and drink as he dove into her latest oeuvre. She had when younger opted to pen adventure tales—a great escape mechanism for any creative person living in a small town in the English countryside—but he realised as the pages went on that this adventure, whose protagonist was female, had a strong peppering of satire and a hint of romance to it, as well. Her story made it clear she was keenly observant of the world around her, and she was very talented in translating it to paper.

Within what felt like little time at all he was through the whole notebook, which he then closed. He was about to turn to her and compliment her on another job well done when he noticed she'd fallen asleep. She was lying on her stomach, her legs crossed at the ankles. Her head was rested on her folded left arm; her hair was blowing around her, staying mostly off of her face due to the barrette. Her right hand was on the page as if she were poised to write whilst dreaming; she still held a ballpoint pen between her thumb and forefinger. The breeze was, to his dismay, taking dangerous liberties with the bottom hem of her dress; her legs were exposed to above the knee as a result. Then her thigh.

As soon as he realised he was in imminent danger of seeing her pants, he reached forward to tug it down. It was silly, as he had seen her before in shorts that went higher than that, but did not want her modesty compromised against her will. As he pulled the hem back down—wondering frankly what he was going to do next, since letting it go only meant it would fly up again—she opened her eyes and blinked sleepily, then looked down to what he was doing. "Mark? Why do you have my dress in your hand?"

He felt his face go crimson. "The wind. It was blowing around. You were sleeping."

She pushed herself up on her elbow, then turned to sit up again. Only then did he feel safe in letting the dress go. She tucked it around her folded legs before she looked up at him, then smiled, then began to laugh. "What were you going to do? Pin it down with pond rocks?"

He smiled too, hoping she would not notice his discomfort. "As a matter of fact, yes. That was exactly my next step."

She laughed, then yawned. "I think it's time for cupcakes. What do you say?"

"I say yes." He reached into the basket, pulling out two cupcakes. In addition to being chocolate cupcakes, they were also topped with chocolate icing, as well.

As he handed her one, she seemed compelled to explain, "I wore a dress because I'm in a writerly mood."

"Writers don't always wear dresses. Particularly not the male sort."

"I wouldn't always bet on that," she fired back.

"But it's not the sort of thing to wear to a picnic."

She cocked an eyebrow, then looked down to her squared collar, flitted her fingers over the high empire waist as she met his gaze again. "What's wrong with my dress?"

"Nothing's wrong with it. It's a perfectly nice dress," he said. "Just maybe not for a picnic on a breezy day. As we've seen."

"But it's my Jane Austen dress."

He did not have a proper response to that, so in lieu of replying, he took a bite of his cupcake. It was very moist and quite delicious, and the icing was not as sweet as he was expecting it to be.

"Passably well, you say?" he asked upon finishing. She smiled.

"I'm glad you like them."

He stared at her a moment longer. "Your mum helped, didn't she?"

"No," she said, but was grinning. "She made them on her own."

She ate her cupcake too, drank some more iced tea to wash it down, then sighed and laid back on the blanket. "Mmm," she said, closing her eyes. "Gorgeous, sunny day. And it's so pretty out here in your parents' garden. Lie down, hm?"

He stretched out next to her on the blanket, looked up at the blue sky overhung with boughs of leaves, blinking as rays of light and shadows from the wind-tossed leaves danced across his face. It really was a perfect summer day.

With as pleasantly sated on lunch as he was, the breeze flitting over his skin and ruffling his sun-lightened brown curls, he closed his eyes, laced his fingers together over his stomach, and felt himself drifting into a distinctly nappish state.

"Mark?"

Her voice pulled him back to consciousness, particularly as it sounded troubled.

"Yes?"

"You didn't say that just to make me feel better, did you?"

He sensed she was not referring to the cupcakes. "Say what?"

"At the party. That you enjoy time with me. That I'm not a chore or a burden."

"I did not say that just to make you feel better," he confirmed. He turned his head and looked at her. Her eyes were closed; he saw her in profile. "Why would you think that?"

He saw and heard her sigh. "I don't know, exactly—maybe because you have in the past shown an exceptional need to protect me. Surprised you didn't try to rip Anthony's head right off his shoulders." She turned and looked at him. "I'm not a little kid anymore, and I shouldn't be commanding so much of your time and attention."

"You aren't," he said. "I'm spending time with a friend. There's a big difference."

"Good." She closed her eyes, turned her face to the sky again. "I won't lose any more sleep over it." Moments later he could tell she really had drifted off to sleep. With the ideal combination of sun, breeze and a good meal in him, he soon joined her in Bedfordshire.

He became aware of a pressure on his back as he drifted out of his nap, which he thought unusual seeing as he was lying on his side, his head resting on his folded elbow. Gingerly he turned his head to try to look over his shoulder, and realised that the pressure to his back was Bridget, who had worked her way across the blanket to nestle closer up against him. He could only really see the top of her head, but he guessed that the two points of contact between his shoulder blades were her balled fists. He looked heavenward; the sky had clouded over, and the air had gotten cooler. He suspected she had become chilled in her short-sleeved, light cotton Jane Austen dress.

He shifted forward by a minute amount, hoping to ease away from her without startling her. It didn't work.

He had forgotten she could let out a world-class shriek when prompted.

"Bridget!" he barked at her; apparently when properly motivated he could roll and pop up onto his feet and be awake in an instant, because it was from this point of view he was now looking down upon her.

She appeared to come to her senses at once, blinking, looking up at him. "Oh! Mark! I'm so sorry. I forgot for a moment where I was."

In retrospect it was kind of funny; once he'd recovered his senses he began to laugh. "You could wake the dead with that scream," he said. "Someone's going to think I'm butchering you out here."

She chuckled. "Sorry," she said again. "I must have been cold or something." She rubbed her arms. "Maybe it's time to go inside."

She got to her feet along with her notebooks, and he gathered up the picnic paraphernalia. Amongst the things he had brought was a cardigan sweater, which he now held up for her. "Not the most fashion-forward look," he said as she slipped her arms into the sleeves then dropped the sweater onto her shoulders, "but it'll do for now." Without even thinking he pulled her hair up and out of the back of the sweater, his fingers brushing against the back of her neck.

She turned around and met his eyes. "Thanks. Um. Let's go inside."

If it had been anyone else, he would have thought that had made her uncomfortable. "You all right?"

"Oh, yeah, just fine," she said. The way she said it made him worry until she added, "The, um, cupcake's sitting a bit like a lead brick in my stomach."

He chuckled. "Sorry. Be sure to give your mother hell."

She chuckled, though it seemed half-hearted. "Speaking of mother…" She glanced around to in search of the clock. "Oh no. It's later than I thought. Can you take me home?"

"Of course," he said. "I'll get my keys."

She nodded.

She was uncommonly quiet during the short drive back to her house. The air was cooler still than before and she wrapped her arms around herself. He turned to glance at her. She quickly looked away.

"You're not still thinking I feel somehow obligated to entertain you, do you?"

She turned pink. "No… I take you at your word on that one," she said. "If I don't, you _will_ think I'm nothing but a pesky child."

"Pesky is not a word I'd ever use to describe you," he said. Complicated, perhaps, he added mentally; creative, quirky, intelligent… but not pesky.

"You say that now… but surely I was a pain in the arse when I was a little girl."

"Well…" he said with some exaggeration. "Maybe a little. If you insist."

They arrived at the Jones' home. He stopped the car in front of the house and let it idle, as ordinarily she just bounded out of the car and up the walk. "Thanks again," she said. "Great picnic."

"My pleasure. One of the best I've ever attended."

"Listen…" she began tentatively. "Are you going to be around all summer?"

"Yes," he said. "Why?"

"Mmm, no reason in particular," she said; "just curious." She sat there silently, her gaze fixed on him, when she suddenly leaned forward and pecked a kiss onto his cheek. "Bye." She smiled, paused a moment more, then let herself out of the car.

He put the car into gear to move forward once more, a smile on his face. It had been a perfect summer day, indeed.

………

Summer did not mean all play for a nineteen-year-old boy on a track to becoming a barrister; he had a stack of books to read in preparation of the next term's classes. Most of his school mates were spending the summer with their own families, and in a town the size of Grafton Underwood, there were scant number of boys his age around even when they did live at home. Consequently, most of his free time was spent alone or in Bridget's company.

Thanks to a lack of mates to play football with, for exercise he had taken up running again, and had made a regular circuit from his house to the centre of town and back, not an insignificant distance in the least. It was during one of those runs that he happened to see Bridget in town, after several days of not seeing or hearing from her at all.

She was not on her own.

The one ice cream parlour in town was doing a bustling business on this sunny summer day, and the blond boy at her side had a clear look of admiration in his eyes as she talked to him animatedly, her scoop of chocolate ice cream threatening to drip down over the cone and onto her hand. They were sitting together on the edge of a flowerbox and the sun was lighting her face, making it even more improbable that she had seen him.

The look on her companion's face was more than just admiration, Mark realised. The boy was smitten. It did not surprise him that she might garner such attention; what did surprise him was the sudden feeling that surged up in him, a feeling he was not even sure he could identify. Jealousy? He didn't think so. Protectiveness? Maybe. She was too young, in his opinion, to date.

He watched her interaction with this boy for a few minutes more, and it was clear to him that she did not feel the same way about him that he felt about her. She was just being her usual gregarious self; no special attention or fawning looks were directed towards this boy. It was as just as she felt the chocolate ice cream touch the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger, as she brought the cone up to her mouth the lick up the drips of melted ice cream, that she spotted him standing there. He hoped he didn't look too dishevelled.

"Mark!" she called. "Hey!"

Mark had to tear himself out of his thoughts; the boy with whom she was sitting was looking at her with a rather voracious expression as she licked her fingers.

"Hi, Bridget," he said as he strode over. "I was beginning to wonder if you were well."

She was confused. The blond boy looked up to Mark with apprehension.

"You haven't been around."

"Oh. Mum's lightened the lead a bit," she said, grinning. "Mark, this is Patrick. We're school mates. Patrick, this is Mark. He goes to Cambridge and he's reading law."

Patrick managed a polite smile, but it was clear to Mark that his presence was not welcome, even as he said, "Nice to meet you." After a beat, he added, "When do you go back?"

_As subtle as Tina_, he thought. "At the end of the summer," he replied. He then asked Bridget, "Does your mother know where you are?"

She pursed her lips.

He added, "I could walk you home if you want."

She opened her eyes wide in an exaggerated glare as if willing him to be quiet. "I don't need you to walk me home."

"I insist."

"No," she said emphatically. "I'm finishing my ice cream with Patrick."

Mark did not trust Patrick's intentions despite it being the middle of the day. "I'll sit with you for a bit then." He sat beside Bridget, a clear line of sight to Patrick, whom he regarded intensely, watching for any suspicious moves. "So what were you talking about?"

"Well," began Bridget uncomfortably, "next year's classes—"

Sharply the blond boy said, "Can't you take a hint?"

"No."

Mark and Patrick were now engaged in a stare-down, and Mark was not the one to blink first. Patrick got to his feet.

"Bridget, I'll see you around," Patrick muttered before stalking off down the road, presumably in the direction of his own house.

"Mark," she said exasperatedly once he'd gotten out of earshot. "You didn't have to be so mean."

"It was mean of me to sit here with you?"

"It was mean of you to intrude on us—" She paused. "Wait. Did you think this was some kind of date or something?"

"Rather looked like one to me."

"We met here by total chance," she said. "Patrick's one of my mates. Just one of the gang."

"I don't think he thinks of you as 'only a mate'," replied Mark.

She made a dismissive sound.

"I saw the way he was looking at you," he said.

She made that sound again. "No way. It's just Patrick."

"I think he sees you as more than 'just Bridget'."

She looked at him, her eyes surprisingly emotional-looking. "Whatever," she said. "I need to go home." She rose to her feet and began to walk off, throwing the rest of her cone in a trash bin. He rose to follow her. Without looking back she said, "I said I don't need you to walk me home."

"Bridget." His long legs meant he had caught up to her with no effort. "Come on. Don't give me the silent treatment."

She looked determinedly forward, walking as fast as she could. It was a testimony to her stubbornness; she must have known she couldn't out-walk or outrun him. "You keep saying you're not going to be my babysitter anymore, but then you do this. Patrick's been a friend for a long time."

"Bridget," he said with more emphasis. "You've grown, he's grown. You can't trust all guys now, not like you can trust me."

She stopped, her feet scuffing in the gravel and sending up a cloud of dust as he sailed by for a split second more. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Boys that age are not interested in the same things they were interested in when you were seven or eight."

"But I can trust you," she said sarcastically.

"You can always trust me."

He swore her lower lip was quivering, but she didn't say anything, just turned away and stalked off again. He called her name again, but she did not answer.

Mark evidently could take a hint, after all. Rather than pursue it, he turned around and resumed the run back to his own house. He barely remembered covering the distance for the thoughts in his head, analysing his encounter with her, how much she'd overreacted to his presence when he was only trying to be a good friend and watch out for her. It actually hurt a little bit that she would react so sharply to him, to assume the worst of his intentions. She had to know that boys were looking at her differently now, not in the innocent way they might have done a few years ago; she couldn't have been unaware of the way Patrick had been looking at her. And if she didn't know… well, she really needed to, for her own protection.

It occurred to him that there was a very real possibility that she did not know—she was a smart kid (_young woman_, he reminded himself) but her mother tended to try to protect her by shielding her in so many other ways—

"Mark! Did you have a good run?" Startled from his thoughts, his mother asked this of him as he strode through the foyer.

"Yes," he said curtly. He intended to shower in his bathroom then—well, probably get back to reading. "I'll be upstairs."

"Do you want me to take a message then?"

"What?"

"The telephone. Oh, I'm sorry. Did I not mention you have a call?"

"What? No. I'll take it. Who is it?"

She pursed her lips, smiling slightly. "Who do you think? Your little shadow."

He blinked in surprise. Bridget? "I'll pick it up in the front room. Thanks."

He went over to the telephone, took the receiver in hand.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Hello?" he asked again.

"Hi, Mark." It was indeed Bridget. Her voice was quiet and she sounded tired or sad.

"Everything all right?"

"No," she said. "I was really awful to you and I'm sorry. But you were kind of awful to me, too."

He blinked.

"You were rude to Patrick and you made me feel about five years old when I was just spending time with a friend who happens to be a boy."

He sighed. She did have a point. Regardless of his opinion, of his desire to protect her, he ultimately was treating her no differently than her own mother was. "I guess I just can't so easily stop the habit of looking out for you. I apologise."

He heard her sniff. "Thanks."

"I hope you can understand what I'm saying, though," he said. "I have heard way too much what boys that age are really thinking about when they realise they're all of a sudden surrounded by pretty young women instead of girls." He cleared his throat. "After all, I once _was_ a boy that age."

She didn't say anything right away. "I'll try to remember your advice, I really will," she said at last.

He wiped his brow, all too aware he was in need of a shower still. "I appreciate that. Forgiven?"

She chuckled, though it was a little half-hearted. "Of course. I can't take the thought of things being weird between us," she said.

"Agreed." He looked at the time; it was late in the afternoon and he had planned on reading up through a specific chapter to meet his goals for each day. However, he wanted to cheer her up. "Hear it's supposed to be a hot day tomorrow."

"Yeah," she said. "I'll probably sit in my room and suffer all day."

"I have an idea," he said. "How do you feel about spending the heat of the day in a cinema tomorrow?"

"Oh!" She was clearly startled by his asking. "Um, yeah, that'd be awesome!"

It was decided that he would come to pick her up at about noon the next day, they could head up to Kettering and decide once at the theatre which film to watch. It honestly didn't matter much to him, so long as it wasn't some soppy period costume drama.

As it turned out, she wasn't interested in anything of the sort. Smiling happily as she descended the front steps, she approached the car dressed in a light and breezy summer top and skirt outfit, her hair down and softly curled over her shoulders. He thought it unusual she had it down for such a hot day, but she'd probably reasoned it would not matter so much once they were inside.

The drive, not long to start with, went by in a flash in her company. Not that she was ever overly dramatic or anything, but she claimed she was dying, _dying!_, to see a new film with Madonna in it. He had not heard of any such film, and it frankly seemed a bit insipid-sounding, but he decided he was game.

The sulking disappointment he was met with was not to be believed when they arrived at the cinema only to discover that the film was not due to be released in the foreseeable future in the UK.

"Too bad _Dirty Dancing_ isn't here yet," she pouted as she sat down on a chair in the lobby.

He had not heard of this film, either; his eyebrows shot up. "Do you really think I would take you to a film with a title like that?"

Despite her sullenness, she smiled. "It's not like they're having _sex_ on the dance floor. It's just _dancing_." She looked up at him. "All they have playing here is children's films and movies older than my mum."

"It's not like movies turn mouldy," he chuckled. Pointing to the marquee, he said, "This one's quite a classic. It's about a murder, and the detective investigating it—well. I'm not going to ruin it for you."

She looked quite sceptical, but asked, "What? What happens to the detective?"

He knew she was too curious not to want to know. "Tell you what. Let's go to the film and if you don't like it as much as I do, I will drive back from Cambridge to take you to _Dirty Dancing_ myself on opening weekend."

She smirked. "You will not."

"I will," he said, "but I'm going to know if you're lying just to see that film." It was true. She would not be able to suppress her reactions during the film sufficiently.

"Okay then. You're on. But I'd better be dazzled."

He purchased two tickets to _Laura_, walked with her into the theatre. She begged for some popcorn so he went back out to buy some, as well as chocolates and a couple of soft drinks.

"Nice day for a bit of classic film," said the woman behind the counter, an older lady who gave him a little wink as he paid. He wasn't sure why. He shrugged and took the snacks into the cinema. As he sat down, she leaned into him.

"Remember," she said. "Dazzled."

The film began, and within five minutes of its start he could tell she was already thoroughly entranced. She stayed close to him for the whole film, whispering comments and asking questions. She ate the popcorn very slowly, which indicated to him more than anything how much she was enjoying it. She gasped and gripped his arm when the shocking surprise of the film was revealed, grasped it again at the denouement at the end, and was grinning crookedly as the house lights came back up.

"As much as I want to see _Dirty Dancing_," she said resignedly, "I can't lie. That was a really good film. I'm glad I let you bribe me into it."

He chuckled. "I'm glad you liked it."

On the marquee on the way out he noticed that the cinema was hosting classic films all summer long. He pointed this out to her. "Half the summer's gone already," he said, "but there's still quite a lot of quality filmmaking to be seen."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Next week they're showing _Pride & Prejudice_! Oh, Mark, we must come back. Please bring me back?"

Setting his private declaration aside, he promised that he would.

It was still rather warm outside, so rather than driving back to Grafton Underwood straight away, he invited her for ice cream—"Since you didn't get to finish yours yesterday," he explained—and though she protested it was feeble at best. In fact, within minutes she had a small parfait before her, chocolate ice cream with chocolate fudge, whipped cream and a cherry on top.

"Have to keep cool, you know," she declared, dipping her spoon into the parfait dish.

He had opted for a simple two scoops of French vanilla but took great amusement in watching her enjoy her treat. She was not nor never had been shy about enjoying food she liked, which was a refreshing change of pace for most girls he knew. Sliding down the back side of the heaped cream was the bright red maraschino. Out of habit he reached forward and plucked it from her dessert, popping it in his mouth.

"Hey!" she said with mock indignation. "I can't believe you took my cherry, you brute!"

As the words came out of her mouth, said in what was clearly perfect innocence, he felt his entire face crimson over, particularly in fear that other patrons had overheard her speaking. She seemed unaffected; it was clear that she was unfamiliar with this particular euphemism.

"Mark? Are you all right?"

He finished chewing and swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. A furtive glance about them indicated that her voice had not, in fact, carried that far, and the place was surprisingly empty for the heat of the day. He could only see a table of young men behind Bridget fighting their laughs as they returned his gaze. Mark was completely mortified. "I'm, um, just fine."

He could tell that she didn't believe him, but she didn't press it for the time being, and continued eating her ice cream unabated.

He was fairly quiet for the drive back to Grafton Underwood. Once they were alone she continued pestering him about what the matter was. He did not tell her. He would have been too great of an embarrassment to do so.

However, it was clear to him when he next saw her three days later that she had found out on her own, evident in her bashful demeanour and her inability to meet his gaze. "Hi," she said quietly as she stepped aside to allow him in.

"Hi," he said. "Just dropping by to say hello…."

She looked past him to the outdoors. "Actually," she said, grabbing his arm and redirecting him back the way he came, "let's go sit in the garden."

He did not reply or resist, following her out. She led him to the tree she often liked to spend time under, writing, reading, napping or chatting with him. She spoke without further preamble. "I'm so sorry about… um. The cherry thing."

"Bridget," he said gently. "It's all right."

"No, it's not." She met his gaze at last. "I must have embarrassed the hell out of you."

"You had no idea what that meant when you said it." He patted her shoulder reassuringly, smiling. "In retrospect it's actually a bit amusing. Considering it's you and me."

She blinked rapidly, then looked down again. "Yeah, I guess."

"What do you man, 'yeah, I guess'?"

"Never mind." She drew in a deep breath, looked up at him again, offering him a smile. "So, did you want to hang out today or something?"

"Sure," he said, his mind going over his plans for the day. "I was just going to do a bit more reading, but I'm ahead of schedule… or if you're in a writing mood I could read as planned."

"Actually…" Again she looked bashful. "I've been dying for a game of Scrabble but I find that most of my friends… well. It's not much of a challenge, playing with them. Not to blow my own horn or anything."

She looked more at ease as he began to smile. "Sure," he said. "That sounds marvellous."

Her happiness was unmistakeable. "Wait here. I'll go and get it." She bounded back into the house, her hair swinging back and forth behind her as she did.

They had a good series of games under the tree. He knew she was intelligent but never expected her to know half the words she did. He attributed it to her love of reading (and writing). It was only her mother calling her in to wash up for supper that ended their games.

"Maybe you can stay," she said with hope in her eyes.

"Your mum probably hasn't planned for it," he said. "I never told my own mum I'd be gone so long and she's expecting me."

"Come in, I'll ask, and you can call your mum and ask. Please." When she smiled so sweetly it was hard to refuse. "And then we can have another game over dessert."

Pamela Jones did in fact have plenty of supper to go around, and was welcome at the table. Dessert turned out to be a vanilla flan that was very delicious. Her mother's roots as the daughter of a domestic science teacher were showing, which made him wonder about her propensity for stuffed olives and gherkins for their New Year's parties.

It was after dark when they finished their final game and when Mark rose to his feet he swore his knees cracked. He stretched up, his arms up over his head; he would pay the price for not running that day.

"How about the film on Monday, afternoon, then?"

"Yes," she said, a gleam in her eye.

"Don't forget about next weekend," piped up her mother.

"_Mum_," she said. She was clearly humiliated.

"Oh, I may as well ask, Bridget," she said. "Mark, Bridget wants to go to the fair—you know, the night-time summer fete—next Saturday, but her father and I have a dinner engagement at the Enderbys. Would it trouble you too much to take her?"

He thought he understood her embarrassment: being babysat yet again. He tried to smooth it over in his acceptance. "I was planning on going anyway," he said casually, even though this was the first he'd heard of it, "and was going to ask her myself."

She was appropriately cheered, and offered a smile. "I'd love to go."

He had no idea then how much one summer night could change everything.


	5. Chapter 4

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~3,532.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 4_

Mark turned up at noon again to pick up Bridget for that week's showing of the 1940 adaptation of _Pride & Prejudice_. He had never seen it himself or read the book—he had not had a propensity to, being that he shared a surname with the main male character—but knew that she was quite an Austen fan, and knew she was very much looking forward to it.

This week she emerged from her house wearing what she had called her Jane Austen dress that day they'd had the picnic, her hair once again loose, her fringe sweeping into her eyes. He chuckled, glancing down to where he held onto the steering wheel as she pulled open the passenger door.

"What's so funny?"

"I should have guessed you might wear that," he said, looking up to her.

"At least it isn't a picnic," she retorted with a smile.

It was not long after it began that it became clear to Mark that the film was diverging wildly from the book, based solely on her comments: "That is _not_ Regency clothing!", "Why on bloody earth are they _waltzing_?", and "Mr Collins a librarian? Rubbish!" were amongst the choicest. It was the big reveal at the end, however, that really got her worked up into a froth. Apparently, according to Bridget, Lady Catherine would _never_ have conspired with Darcy to win Elizabeth, never claimed she had power to strip him of his estate, and certainly never told her what he'd done for her sister Lydia. He swore she might have gotten up and left the theatre if not for him. He didn't think the movie so bad, but he wasn't so wedded to the original. Her commentary was almost as entertaining to him as the film itself, though he was not entirely sure the same was true for the rest of the audience that day, comprised primarily of little old ladies.

"I'm sorry you didn't like it," he said as they left the cinema.

"I didn't dislike it," she said, which surprised him given the criticism she'd given it. "If I just think of the movie as a different beast as the book then I guess it's okay. In fact, I was quite fond of that Darcy."

"Olivier."

"No," she said as if he were thick. "His name was Darcy."

"No," he said with equal vehemence. "Sir Laurence Olivier. The actor. Though I don't think he was a Sir yet when this was made."

"Oh, durr. I knew that," she said, tinting pink. "He's the best I've seen, for sure. I can't imagine any actor could ever top that."

As they filed out, Mark caught several of the other moviegoers meeting his eyes and to his surprise they were smirking at him, at the both of them. One even winked. Perhaps they weren't annoyed by her running commentary, after all.

It wasn't quite as hot a day that day, and he had a reading schedule to keep, so they decided to make the drive back to Grafton Underwood directly after the showing. She walked to her front door but turned and waved as she reached the porch. He waved in return, taking a moment to admire how lovely she looked in a purely objective manner. The dress was very attractive on her cute little figure; if he didn't know her age, he might have believed her to be seventeen or eighteen. For the first time that day, he realised she was wearing open toed shoes with a slight heel.

"Talk to you soon," she called, smiling brightly at him. She then went into the house.

He could not stop thinking about her biting comments over the course of the film, not during the drive between their houses, not during his supposed scheduled reading. When he noticed that he had read the same passage three times without really comprehending it, he decided to give up schoolwork for the day. He stashed the law book away and went to find his mother. Surely she had a copy of Austen's _Pride & Prejudice_ around.

………

Circumstances conspired to keep Mark at home for the next few days, between the freak thunderstorm, a daytrip into London with his mother, and continuing to stay on his scheduled coursework in order to finish in the month and half until he headed for Cambridge again. Saturday came all too quickly, not that he wasn't looking forward to the festival.

It actually began in the afternoon and ran into the night with a concert in the park. Since her parents planned on leaving for their dinner at the Enderbys at about five, he decided that they could get something to eat together beforehand. Bridget thought the idea a grand one and told him there were food vendors at the park, that they could just get something there. He agreed.

Punctual as always, he arrived at the Joneses just prior to five. He knew, however, that she was not always on time. He decided to park the car and go to the front door.

Pam answered, smiling brightly. Colin was there too, fussing with his suit jacket. It was clear they were ready to leave, too. "Thank you so much for taking her, Mark. She would have been bored rigid, done nothing but complain about wanting to be at the fete, and their Julie is just enough older that she and Bridget have never got on well—"

He would have thought by now that he'd have been used to seeing her in her new guise as a budding young lady, but all previous incarnations of same had nothing on what greeted him at that moment. As he took her in Pam's voice faded from his head. She wore a lovely pale blue cotton sundress that mirrored and brought out the blue in her eyes. Her blonde hair was once more down and on her shoulders, waving over her slightly browned skin. As she came closer to him—ever so much taller than usual, thanks to the wedge-heeled white shoes she wore on her feet—he saw too that she again had on the faintest dusting of brown shadow, mascara, rosy blush on the apples of her cheeks, and translucent, shimmery pink gloss on her lips. She bore a little white handbag slung on her shoulder. He caught the slightest whiff of that vanilla-rose perfume, and he smiled, thinking back to that fateful party which seemed so long ago. It was just then that he realised precisely how much she had matured since then.

"Bridget," he said. "You look ready." She looked a little crestfallen; clearly that was not the right thing to say. "You look very nice," he added.

That caused a smile to spread across her features.

"Shall we leave, then?" he asked.

"Yep," she said. "Let's go. Bye, Dad; bye, Mum." She pecked her father's then her mother's cheek in turn.

"Have a nice time, dumpling," said Colin, his cheeks ruddy as he smiled fondly at her.

"Bridget," said Pam. "Bring something to cover up with for later. It'll get chilly when the sun goes down."

She made a dismissive sound. "I'll be fine."

Dressed casually in cotton trousers and a polo shirt, he had himself stashed a cardigan jumper in the car for the inevitably cool evening. He suspected before the evening was through that she would be the one wearing it.

The fete was in the park just off the main town square, no further away than the walks they used to take so frequently, but with the event ending after dark he thought it best to drive them, not to mention the fact that the shoes she wore were not made for long-haul walks. He found a reasonably close place to park—someone who was leaving, probably someone who'd spent the day crisping in the sun and only wanted to go home to have dinner and layer themselves with aloe vera gel. He went around and helped her out of the car. She was just radiant in the way she looked around at the bustle of crowd, the vendor booths, the music in the air.

"This is really, really great. Thanks for bringing me."

"You're more than welcome. Stay close to me," he said, his hand reaching protectively around her shoulder as they made their way through the crowd to where the food was (following the scent alone). "I wouldn't want to lose you in this."

He honestly had never seen her looking so gleeful.

They settled for a basket each of fish and chips; he decided to purchase a pint of beer to go with his, since he would not be driving again any time soon. She had a Coke. They were fortunate enough to find a table at which to sit, and could therefore eat at their leisure and not have to juggle food, drink and trying to partake of either without the danger of ending up with part or all of it on their clothing or on the ground.

The slight gusts of wind occasionally sent fronds of her golden hair dancing about her face, rustling through her fringe. She kept tucking her locks behind her ears, but they just came free again within moments. "This is really great," she said again after a long sip of her soda, looking out over the crowd. "Though honestly, I didn't think this many people even lived in Grafton Underwood."

He chuckled. "I imagine there are some folks here who made the trip in just for the street fair."

"Oh, you're probably right." She looked at him again. He swore the smile had not left her face since their arrival. She picked up her last plank of battered fish. "Why is it that fish and chips always seem to taste better when purchased from a rickety old food cart?" She then took a large bite.

At this unexpected rhetorical question he laughed aloud. "One of the great mysteries of the universe," he said, eating another chip.

After eating they decided to take a stroll through the booths, stopping to listen to the music. She had taken his admonition to heart about keeping close; he felt her hand holding on to his upper arm as they stood before the stage.

There were some carnival-type games, too. He attempted to win her a stuffed animal despite her protestations that she did not need one, but his aim proved off and the best he could do was a small bobble-headed dog. This he managed twice. She seemed pleased enough, and tucked them into her handbag.

As the sun went down the crowd thinned out; he found that they had seen everything and had circled back to where the stage was. The acts had kept rotating throughout the day, and playing currently was a band comprised of strings and trumpets. They were covering the old standards. Most of the people remaining were couples and were dancing. He saw her looking rather longingly at them.

"Did you want to dance, too?" he asked.

She snapped her head around, her flush evident even in the twilight. "Oh, me? Um. No. I'd embarrass myself in front of everyone."

He knew that she really wanted to; he had not misread her gaze at the crowd. "If there was no one around, would you want to dance?"

Her smile was crooked. "Maybe."

Just beyond the stage was where the park proper was, thick copses of trees and darker than the illuminated festival grounds. "I have an idea. Why don't we go over there? It's a little more private. You can enjoy a dance without a few dozen prying eyes."

"But I can't dance very well."

"I don't see anyone here preparing for competition ballroom dancing," he quipped. "Come on. Are you game?"

That crooked smile broadened. "Yeah, sure."

The music carried quite well into that private space and though he was not sure himself about his own ability to dance, he held out his hands to take the lead and with a deep blush staining her cheeks, she stepped forward and into his arms. He took her right hand into his left, placed his free hand on her back (realising as he did so that the back of her dress came down lower than he was expecting), and stepped forward. Her hand clutched onto his upper right arm and she instinctively stepped back with a bit of a stumble, but within a few beats they found their collective rhythm and she smiled proudly up at him.

"Can't dance very well, my eye," he said quietly. "You're quite a natural."

"Did you have lessons or something?" she asked. "It doesn't even look like you're thinking about it at all."

"Yes, a long time ago," he said, recalling the humiliation of dancing with his fellow mates at Eton during that particular instruction. "Guess it's a little like riding a bike. My partner then left a lot to be desired." She furrowed her brow. "Age twelve. Robbie Clarkson. It was a nightmare."

She giggled.

The music continued; he felt his left arm tiring a little so he drew it in closer to them. At this she stepped nearer to him, not missing a beat, so that her hand moved up to his shoulder. He in turn moved his right hand further around her at her waist. The net effect was that they were so close to each other they were touching; her hair brushed against his chin; his nose filled with her perfume. The dance steps became a little more shuffled, covered a little less ground.

With the moon and the stars in the sky, the cool breeze in the air, the music drifting lazily around them, he closed his eyes, continuing to hold her close and lead the dance. It was a wonderfully serene moment in which his thoughts took flight reflecting on the day he'd spent with her, what a lovely time they'd had together—

It was the feel of her fingers on the back of his neck, brushing along the short hair of the nape, that roused him from his thoughts. He opened his eyes and saw her looking up at him, her own eyes huge and luminous in the moonlight. "Mark," she said in a whisper. "I—"

She didn't finish whatever it was she wanted to say. Instead she pushed herself up on her toes and, quite taking him surprise, pressed her lips to his. Simultaneous to this she pulled her hand out of his to encircle her arms about his neck. Although her lips lingered on his, it was an innocent, chaste kiss. Instinctively his other hand joined the first on her back, holding her securely.

She drew back, her gaze fixed to his. He could only manage her name weakly, believing perhaps that he had imagined the whole thing, before she boldly did it again, her soft lips delivering a series of light kisses on his mouth. He found himself responding quite without conscious thought, returning those light kisses, pressing her up against him; his hands rose on her back, and he felt her hair sweeping over his knuckles.

_Stop._

As he thought this he drew back swiftly, leaving her looking confused and hurt. It might have been easy for any other boy to allow this to continue, but not Mark; although difficult, it was the only choice he had. She might have been beautiful, soft, sweet-smelling and lovely to kiss, but he could not forget who she was to him, little Bridget from his paddling pool days, not even sixteen and meaning more to him than a sister ever could have.

"No," he said with more conviction than he currently felt, stepping back from her, releasing her from his embrace. "I can't do this."

"Mark," she said.

"It's wrong," he continued, "and you're so—"

"Mark," she said again, her voice cracking, a tear escaping her eye. "I have been in love with you as long as I can remember," she confessed, each word trembling; doing so was not easy for her, that much was evident. He blinked in his disbelief, was rendered completely speechless. "There's no other boy who could ever come close or take your place. I don't want them to."

"Bridget, you're fifteen," he said gently, even as his own emotions and feelings were in turmoil, the world as he knew it turned topsy-turvy. "You might think you're in love—"

"Don't patronise me like that," she said sharply. "Don't you think I've tried to make the feelings go away? There's no one I can talk so comfortably with and no one who knows me the way you do." After a pause, she added, "No one makes me _feel_ like you do."

"No," he said again forcefully, even as a small part of him wanted to take her in his arms again to try to make her feel better. "I'm sorry, but this cannot happen, and I'm especially sorry if I have said or done anything that would have made you think—"

He stopped suddenly as she turned away, her head bowed down, her face in her hands, her shoulders rocking in silent sobs.

"Bridget," he said gently, his heart cracking in two for her pain. "I really am sorry, but you must see all the reasons why this is wrong."

She turned to him again, face streaked with tears. "I don't, and I won't," she said. "Four years is not that much of a difference."

"It is when you're fifteen," he said. "And it isn't just that. You're like a sister to me."

"Stop saying that," she said, her tone turning almost angry. "I am not your sister. You need to stop thinking of me that way, like I'm a little girl."

He let out a long, slow sigh, running his hand over his face. He felt overloaded, conflicted, and did not want to have this fight with her, especially not right now when his thoughts were so jumbled. "I think I should take you home now," he said at last.

"I'll walk," she said stubbornly, wiping away the wetness and the makeup from under her eyes.

"You will not walk," he said. He watched as she rubbed her upper arms with her hands. "You're cold. I'll give you my cardigan and take you home."

"I said I will walk," she insisted.

"It's late, it's dark, and it's far too dangerous for me to let you walk on your own. Your parents expect me to keep you safe."

She looked stunned; resignedly she looked down, holding herself with her own arms. As she did, he realised he knew why. In her mind, he was doing nothing but babysitting her again. She did not say another word, not as they weaved their way back to his car, not as he helped her into the too-large cardigan (not the first time she'd worn it, he recalled), and not as they drove the distance back to the Jones' house.

"You have a key, right?" he asked, once they were idling in front of her house.

She nodded, not looking at him as she opened the car door in preparation to leave. Her silence was killing him; the thought that she might never speak to him again terrified him.

"Bridget," he said. "Please understand I never meant to hurt you."

She turned her eyes to him—it pained him to see they were brimming with unshed tears—before rising quickly and rushing to the door, key in hand for a quick entrance. He could hear an escaped sob as she made the run up the pavement, hastily opening then slamming the door shut. He was grateful on her behalf that her parents were not yet home. It would have been difficult for her to explain why she'd returned home in such a state.

Driving home was easy as he'd slipped into a sort of autopilot. He was grateful too that his own parents were still out at the Enderbys', because his own mental state upon arriving home was not much better than hers. He was scattered mentally; confused not only about what had happened, but how he had not seen it sooner; guilty for inadvertently encouraging her in her feelings; and afraid to examine his own feelings, which in that moment had revealed that they might be more than he had ever thought they could be, or should be.

In that moment before reason had taken hold, he had felt things he was not proud of, things he hardly wanted to admit to himself: he had felt desire for her, had felt were it any other girl it might have meant a heady snog up against a tree. He even had fleeting thoughts about his one-time comment about her not being the sort of girl he might have taken off to a loo for sex—

"No," he muttered to himself in the dark of his bedroom, staring at the ceiling. "It does no good to think about these things."

As he drifted off into a troubled sleep, he realised he could not help thinking of them all the same.

* * *

NB:

Sir Laurence Olivier made _Pride & Prejudice_ in 1940 and was knighted in 1947.


	6. Chapter 5

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,141.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 5_

Mark thought it best all around if he kept his distance from Bridget for the time being. He reasoned that contacting her would only prolong her own suffering in the short term; if he gave her a little time and space, she would come to understand his way of thinking was best, and maybe they could rebuild a friendship out of the debris of her ill-fated confession.

The following week he was surprised when he received a phone call from Pam Jones directly. The tone of her voice was low and serious.

"Did Bridget do something to offend you?"

Offended was not quite the word for it. "Why do you ask?"

"She's barely left her room all week and when I suggested she take her bicycle over to see you, she burst into tears. What did she do?"

He was not sure what about this situation signalled to her fault on Bridget's part, but he was certain that she would not want her mother to know about the scene at the park. "She didn't do anything wrong, Mrs Jones. Don't worry."

She was quiet for a moment or two. "I understand," she said at last. "I'm sure she didn't take the news well, but honestly she can't expect you to be her constant companion anymore."

"News?" he asked in a slight panic.

"News, Mark. That you're tired of having her following you around like a puppy dog. I certainly never expected you to watch over her forever, what with you off to Cambridge and turning twenty in—ooh!—it's tomorrow, isn't it?" she went on. "She's got to spend more time with people her own age… and I'm sure you have loads to do. Ooh, must whiz! Take care and have a happy birthday."

He could hardly believe she had so willingly terminated a telephone conversation, such that he stood there a good minute more before he hung up his own receiver. Her comment also left him a little stunned; she had assumed Mark had essentially told Bridget to get lost.

He had become very much aware that his birthday was the next day, thanks to the absence of a handmade card or a cheery little thoughtful present from Bridget; what she lacked in shopping budget, she had always made up for in enthusiasm. It seemed very likely given the precedent of the last week that he would not see her at all. His parents were making a bigger fuss than usual that he was no longer a teenager, and told him they would be taking him for dinner, just the three of them. He knew he was beyond birthday parties and paddling pools, but he could not help but think how much duller it would be without Bridget there.

It turned out to be a pleasant enough evening, and he could tell his parents were doing their best to brighten his spirits, but could only think how much he missed her not being there to celebrate.

He found within the next few days beyond that, with no distractions to tear his attention away, he finished all of this reading far, far ahead of schedule. Finishing up the work underscored how much free time he had, how much of that free time had formerly been taken up in Bridget's company… and underscored yet again how much he missed her.

The lack of contact with Bridget did not go unnoticed by his mother, either. "Where's your little shadow?" she asked two weeks after that disastrous night. "Haven't seen hide nor hair of Bridget in these parts."

"She's… been doing other things." As he said it, he felt a stab of pain once more for the loss of her company. He really did miss her terribly, her wit, her smile, her sense of humour…

"I suppose it was only a matter of time before she found her own thing to do apart from her surrogate big brother," she said with a smile. "You should be too, so I hope you're up for a little socialising." He became worried at her tone. "You've been so broody lately, and Julie's just come back from a holiday to France with her friends."

"Julie?"

"Julie Enderby, Mark. She's your age."

He remembered Pam Jones mentioning Julie and Bridget had been less than friendly. "What about her?" he asked, feeling the first pricklings of suspicion.

"Mavis is coming for tea, and I've asked her to bring Julie along. She's a very lovely girl. You'll like her."

Julie Enderby was tall and thin with bright green eyes and a very polite smile. Her hair, however, was a shade of vivid red that was not commonly found in nature—especially considering both of her parents were blond—and coiffed in a very faddish way that he expected would look extremely dated in a decade's time, big, sprayed and styled to the point of lacquered. He thought fleetingly that it would have been impossible to run his fingers through her hair.

"It's nice to see you again after all of this time," she said pleasantly. "I was hoping you'd come the night your parents came to dinner at my parents' house. It was just before my trip and I understand you stayed in France for a good part of the summer a year or so ago. I was hoping to get tips from you."

"Mark was nice enough to take Pam's girl to the street festival that night," said Elaine. "You know Bridget, don't you?"

"Oh, yes," Julie said brightly. "Such a cute kid, even if she's a bit spoiled."

"Mark would know a little something about that," said his mother, throwing a wink at Mark. "He's been one of her chief spoilers."

Julie and Mavis both offered up tinkling little laughs. "That's so sweet," said Julie. "I'm sure she just adores you for it, like a big brother she never had."

Mark held his features in check. "I suppose she does," he said curtly, wishing he could be anywhere else but there.

Conversation moved on, but Mark did not hear it; he could not stop thinking about how irrationally irritated he was at Julie's jab. The initial comment seemed nice on the surface, but the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced it was a backhanded compliment. Bridget was no mere spoiled child. She had wit, charm and verve, and—

Abruptly, however, it occurred to him that he had the advantage of knowing Bridget better than most. She was spoiled to a degree—even her own mother had admitted that—and knowing of the animosity between the two, he imagined that Bridget might have taken every opportunity to annoy the older Julie. The more he thought about it, the more he thought it likely that Julie's comment probably was a sincere attempt to be kind.

He sighed, then looked to his companions, and realised all three women were regarding him expectantly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Did I miss something?"

His mother smiled. "We were just saying that since you and Julie have so much in common, it might be good for the two of you to spend time together. It must be so dull for you here after the excitement of Cambridge."

He knew what she was really saying: take Julie on a date. His initial impulse was to resist, and it seemed his mother and Mavis knew it.

"You can't read your school books all day and all night long," continued his mother.

"All work and no play, you know…" added Mavis with a wink.

He couldn't quite tell if Julie was complacent in this idea, or mortified that her mother was trying to set her up; her expression was difficult to read. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that it certainly wouldn't hurt to expand his horizons at home. It would also help to get his mind off of giving Bridget some time to recover. _And who knows_, he thought, _she might turn out to be a fairly suitable match for me, after all._

He looked at Julie. "How about a movie or dinner sometime?"

She smiled, looking relieved. "How about both, and how about tomorrow?"

………

Taking Julie to the same cinema at which he and Bridget had seen those classic films caused a slight twinge of pain to his heart; he could not help but think of her wry comments about what he knew now to be drastic and unforgiveable changes to a beloved novel. The classics series was matinee only, and the film showing in the evening that week happened to be a new release called _Blind Date_. The director was at least one he'd heard of, so he purchased the tickets and hoped for the best.

After getting their seats, he offered to buy some drinks and popcorn. She agreed, but wanted a diet soda. Upon placing his order, he noticed the woman at the concession stand, the same woman he'd seen those prior weeks at the matinee, was looking at him with a rather unpleasant expression. When she quoted him the price of the drinks and popcorn, her voice was not at all as sweet as it had been.

He tried to be especially nice as he paid; perhaps the person just prior to him had given her a rough time. As she returned his change, she asked, "Did you chuck her?"

"What?" he asked, utterly perplexed.

"For Red in there," she went on. "Did you chuck that cute little blonde for her? She was so sweet and so clearly adored you—at _least_ as much as you adored her."

He was astonished. "She wasn't my girlfriend," he said.

She looked at him dubiously. "Right," she said. "Hope you like the film."

The exchange was a hard one to shake—others obviously had seen what he had not—but the film started and he endeavoured to put it out of his mind and enjoy the show. Julie laughed in all of the places clearly designed to elicit laughter, but Mark found it insipid and witless, the writing predictable, the situations contrived. He could not help but hear a running commentary in his head in Bridget's voice.

His smiling at the thoughts of her reactions clearly led Julie to the wrong conclusion at the end of the film: "I'm glad you liked it."

He had almost forgotten she was there with him. "Oh, yes," he said in his surprise. "I suppose it was all right."

As they stood she reached for his hand and claimed it possessively. "What did you have in mind for dinner?"

He was not terribly familiar with restaurants in Kettering, so he had asked his mum what she might recommend for them. She had suggested a pub called The Snooty Fox, which for its silly name apparently was one of the best in that town. He told Julie of his mother's recommendation. She approved.

He ordered a double lamb chop on the bone with thick chips, while Julie opted for the ham; he had red wine while she went for white.

"So. Cambridge for law?" she asked as they began eating in earnest. "I understand that's what you're going for?"

He nodded. "Yes. I'm hoping to break into the field of human rights. It's something I'm very excited about."

Her eyebrows raised quite of their own accord. "That sounds like it could get dangerous. Taking up a legal fight against powerful and corrupt dictators. I don't think I could ever do that."

He thought about her words in contrast with Bridget's a couple of summers ago, idealism in her eyes about changing the world and saving the little guy. "So which university are you attending?" asked Mark, suddenly curious to see what direction she saw her own life going in. "What are your courses in?"

"De Montfort University. Leicester Business School. I've always had a gift with numbers." She sipped her wine again, then further explained, "Accounting."

Bridget's phrase 'dull as dishwater' echoed in his head, particularly as her father, while a genial, kind man, was an accountant. Fighting a chuckle, he instead smiled, explaining, "Bridget's father's one."

She screwed up her features. "What?"

"Well, you're going into accounting, and it reminded me that her father is an accountant," he explained, feeling a little sheepish.

"Oh," she said, tilting her head and seemingly studying him. "You really are close with her family, aren't you?"

"Our mothers have been friends for a long time, so we sort of grew up together," he said.

"It's too bad you didn't have more of a good influence on her," she said with a grin. "She's a bit wild, and very odd."

He did not understand; given his guidance on smoking and drinking, he thought he _had_ been a good influence. "Wild? How is she wild?"

"I used to sit for her a lot when her parents would go out," she replied. "I would ask her not to do something and she would find loopholes—oh, like the time I told her she could not eat the chocolate cake. Later, I found all of the icing was missing from the cake, then found her, looking at me challengingly with a chocolate-smudged chin, telling me quite rightly that I hadn't told her she couldn't eat the _icing_." She gave him a stern look. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head, not realising consciously that he'd begun to chuckle. "That just sounds very much like her, is all."

"And I suppose you think it's acceptable?"

"I think it speaks of a clever, creative child," he said, "possibly too clever for her own good at times."

"Well, I think it speaks of poor parenting," she sniffed haughtily, "to allow such wilful disobedience to not only persist but thrive."

"I hardly think it's encouraged," he said. "She just is who she is."

She continued uninterrupted. "And what kind of mother would allow her child to go around in such weird clothing?"

He figured this was where the 'odd' came in. "Weird?"

"I remember seeing her all of last summer wearing this weird lacy dress I would never be caught dead in," she said, "and every time I see her she's writing something in a tatty old notebook." She sipped her wine.

"She calls that her Jane Austen dress," he said. "She says that she feels like a writer in it."

She stared at him. "And you don't think that's odd?"

"I just think it's… well, it's _her_. Besides, it's a very nice dress."

"It's odd," she said. "She should know better at her age. The poor thing clearly needs discipline."

"Well," said Mark sarcastically, "I'll be sure to tell her father to send her a military boarding school in Switzerland at his earliest convenience."

"Mmm," she said, slicing off another piece of ham. "Yes, that'd probably be for the best."

He looked up, realised she was deadly serious, and felt it was probably also for the best to get the subject off of Bridget. "So you mentioned you went to France," he said, cutting meat from the bone on his lamb chop. "What part did you visit?"

She did not respond, and when he looked up she was wearing a very irritated expression. "Paris," she said with forced calmness. "As I mentioned in quite extraordinary detail yesterday at tea."

"I am—" he began, then stopped. He knew that his failure to hear a single word about her trip to Paris was a direct result of his being mired in his own thoughts about Bridget having been maligned as a brat. "I apologise. My mind was elsewhere yesterday, as you might remember. I've been going through my books like fire through kindling, and my attention suffered for it."

She looked somewhat mollified. "I think it's important to travel, see the world and new cultures and improve oneself in the process," she explained with an air of world-wisdom. She then proceeded to give him the details of her trip, details which dominated conversation during the remainder of the meal. He learned that none of her stay veered outside Paris proper and all of it seemed restricted to shopping, eating at restaurants and other sightseeing activities aimed toward tourists. It did not sound interesting to him in the least, particularly because it was told without a trace of wit or real sense of observation.

"_Plein d'occasion pour toi de pratiquer ton français?_"

He had only asked her whether or not she got to practise speaking French, but he may as well have been speaking Mandarin or Urdu with the way she stared at him. He was rather appalled to think that she might not have even spoken a word in French the entire two weeks she was there. He said it again, more slowly.

"You're very clever, but I have no idea what you're saying," she said, returning to her meal.

"You don't speak French?"

She snorted a laugh, polite and ladylike, not full and robust as Bridget might have done; even Bridget would have made an attempt to understand and reply to his question. "Speaking French is not a prerequisite for visiting Paris."

"But I thought you said you wanted tips…" he began, then drifted off.

"On things to do, places to visit," she said. "You know, shops."

What he'd assumed was a wish to broaden her horizons was really just a desire to buy things. "I stayed in Marseilles," he advised coolly.

"Is that near to Paris?" she asked.

"No," he said before eating the remaining bites of food. He suddenly felt very weary and just wanted to go home. "Are you in the mood for dessert?"

"Dessert?" she asked. "No thanks. Can't risk it."

"Risk what?" he said, thinking surely she must be this concerned due to a nut allergy or something equally serious.

"It's one piece of cake here, one bowl of ice cream there," she said, "and suddenly you're looking at twenty stone staring back at you from the scale."

The girl was as thin as a rail; almost too skinny, in fact, with no curves to speak of. He offered nothing in response, only paid the bill then drove the distance from Kettering to Grafton Underwood to the sound of the drone of her voice. He found tuning it out was all too easy, and said 'yes' and 'no' as seemed appropriate.

"Thank you, Mark," she said once in front of her house. "I had a really nice time."

"You're welcome."

She smiled. "And thanks in advance for the errand-running. My mum said you'd agree. I really appreciate it."

He really should have paid closer attention to what he was agreeing to do. "What time?" he asked.

"Pick me up at noon?" she asked, offering a very small smile again, the same smile he had thought of as polite at tea the previous day. He now knew it to be a symptom of a rather unemotional temperament.

He was not looking forward to it, but he was also too nice to back out of it. "Sure."

"Great. Thanks. Good night." She got up and out of the car, walking briskly to the house, turning once to offer yet one more smile and a little wave.

Driving in the silence alone actually seemed to revitalise him. He knew after just this one evening that a long term (or even a short term) anything with Julie Enderby was not meant to be. She wore on his nerves; she was dull both in wit and in personality; and too serious, she had no sense of humour. Being around her had drained him of the will to live.

To his surprise, he chuckled. It echoed around him in the vehicle. The very thought was something he could have imagined Bridget saying about Julie; it was no wonder the two were like fire and ice. The longer he considered it, though, the quicker his smile faded. He continued to feel Bridget's absence acutely, made worse when every little thing seemed to curl back around to something she'd said or done.

He had been previously wondering how he was going to readjust to life back at Cambridge after a summer's worth of her company. He knew now it would be fairly similar to this purgatory. He tried to imagine his days with no letter to look forward to, no occasional phone call with her cheery voice asking him how things were…. It was not going to be pretty, not at all.

As he entered the house and steeled himself for the inevitable questions about his evening from his mother, he sighed. He hoped it was possible for there to be enough time in the world for Bridget to set aside her little crush on him.

………

The next day, Mark appeared promptly at noon at Julie's house, and she was already heading down the front walk as he brought the car to a stop in the drive. Her hair gleamed almost orange in the bright sun, and she offered that reserved smile again.

"Off we go, then," she said as she slipped on her mirrored sunglasses.

"Where are we going first?"

She directed him to a stationery store on the main road, where she told him (with more enthusiasm than she had displayed about anything in his presence thus far) that they had the best price anywhere for ledgers, and she had been entrusted to bring back a dozen or so for her classmates.

Julie took her time through the aisles of the store, no mean feat considering the store was not particularly large, and pulled out for herself all manner of supplies for school: pens, pads of regular paper, pencils, and so on. In the end she had a large bag, and Mark was left to carry the stack of ledgers.

"Mark, thank you so much," she said with an appreciative tone. To his dismay and disgust, she slipped her hand around his upper arm to hold on to him somewhat possessively. "I never would have been able to carry all of this on my own. Oh, Mark, look!" She pointed across the street with her free hand, and he turned his head. "I wonder what could have Little Miss Austen so—"

At that moment, it was as if someone pressed a button to mute out all sound in his head but for the rushing of blood in his ears; his eyes had caught and fixed on none other than Bridget herself. Her expression jolted him to the core; it was horrified, betrayed, despondent and everything in between, her eyes already overflowing with tears, her lips tight and firm in an effort to suppress any emotion escaping her throat. They locked eyes for no more than a second or two when she looked away abruptly and brought her hand to her face as she ran off in the direction of the park.

For a moment he could not move, think or speak. He felt as if he had been punched hard in the stomach upon seeing the pain crossing her features, feeling that pain as if it were his own… and in that moment he realised her pain _was_ his own.

He might have known her since she was a small girl, might have taken care of her and kept her out of trouble—but in that instant, despite all of his denials, he knew that he loved her, not as a surrogate sister or a so-called 'little shadow', but for the bright, beautiful, unique, spirited young lady she had become.

His arms fell to his sides and his legs began to move of his own accord, at first as if waking from a sleep, stumbling and unsure; this became a brisk walk, and finally a healthy sprint as he dashed into the park. He was vaguely aware of a thud and a flutter of paper as the ledgers hit the sidewalk; of Julie calling out after him with a petulant cry: "Mark, what the hell's wrong with you?"

_Nothing's wrong_, he thought as his eyes searched the park for a sign of her, _nothing but my own blindness_. As he reached the heart of the park, he came to a stop, heaving for air; the park was empty except for an older couple walking their dog and a young man on a bench eating lunch. She couldn't have just disappeared, and there was no way she had outrun him or doubled back to evade him, not that she would have even known he would be following her.

As he stood there, he realised where he was: practically on the spot where the stage had been during the concert, making it clear to him in an instant where she had gone to be alone with her misery. He followed the path to the small copse of trees, which he knew rendered anyone within it perfectly invisible to passersby. As he approached he could hear someone crying.

A woman crying.

Bridget sat on a stone bench there, the heels of her palms dug into the hollows of her eyes, her shoulders rocking with wave after wave of sobs, ribbons of loose blonde tresses swaying with her movement. Carefully he came near to her, making no sound as he padded through the grass and sat upon the granite. It was only when he touched her shoulder, when she gasped—no, nearly screamed—that she looked up to see him. His heart broke a million times over.

There was only one thing to be done.

"Come here," he said quietly, slipping his right arm around her shoulders, urging her closer to sit across his lap, enfolding her in his arms, cradling the back of her head with his right hand as he held her to him. He felt her hiccoughs subside, felt her own arms come up, one around his waist, one around his neck as she buried her face in his shirt, the skin of her forehead hot against his neck as she shifted in his embrace.

"Sorry," he heard her say faintly. "Proving to you yet again I'm nothing but a big baby."

"No," he said, his voice thicker with emotion than he expected. "You're not." He gently pushed her back by the shoulder so that he could look into her eyes. He reached his left hand up to touch her cheek and wipe the tears away before dropping his head to place a kiss on each of her damp cheeks, then one precisely on her lips. It was chaste enough a kiss, but in delivering this lingering, tender kiss, in cradling her face in his palm, she suddenly seemed to believe he meant what he'd said, even if she still appeared to be very confused.

He took it upon himself to explain. "I was just doing her a favour, running errands…" Her look of puzzlement did not abate. "I took her out at my mum's suggestion. It was a disaster." Still no change. "I don't like her much." He paused, watching her searching his features scrupulously. "Bridget, what is it?"

"Why did you kiss me?" she asked.

He fought the urge to laugh. "Why did you kiss _me_?" he asked in return.

She blinked rapidly as the wheels turned in her head, as she furrowed her brows in consternation. "I told you before, that ever since I—" Ever the clever girl, something clicked at that moment, and she stopped short.

"I love you," he said suddenly, startling even himself. "I didn't realise it, at least not consciously, until I saw what my being with Julie did to you—I know now I was staying away, telling myself anything I could think of, to protect you… from me."

He watched as his words affected her; her features softened even as her gaze became that much more intense, and she reached up to draw her fingers down his cheek. It was enough to give him the strength to continue.

"I was not proud of how I acted that night—I was ashamed that I was feeling things for you that I shouldn't have been feeling." He chuckled low in his throat. "I'm older and I'm supposed to know better, after all, and God, you're not even sixteen yet…"

She said nothing in return, just put her arms around him and hugged him again.

"I've been really miserable without you around," he said quietly.

"Me too," she said, her head resting on his shoulder. "Especially since I was quite sure you never wanted to see me again."

"I was trying to let you put your silly crush out of your head," he said. "Little did I know it was me being silly."

He heard and felt her chuckle before they fell into an easy silence that stretched into many moments, until she asked:

"So what now?"

"What do you mean?"

She pushed back, and a broad grin spread over her features; it was so like her old self again it caused him to smile too. "Well, _you know_," she said, then added when it was clear he did not in fact know, "I haven't had a _boyfriend_ before. What's next?"

Her question was asked in such bright-eyed innocence he scolded himself for automatically jumping ahead a great deal. "Well," he said, "I suppose we could go to the cinema again. Treat it like a proper date."

Her smile brightened, which he hadn't thought possible, then just as suddenly, it faded again. "Oh, bugger," she said, looking up at him with worried eyes. "I can't go out on a date until I'm sixteen."

Parental consent for a date was something he was not used to considering anymore, being that he was already living on his own and economically independent thanks to the trust fund generously established for him; he was used to taking out girls who were just as independent, who didn't need permission to go outside, let alone go out on a school night. There was also another extra wrinkle to this equation: She wasn't just Bridget, a girl he'd realised he was arse over teakettle in love with, she was Bridget, daughter of Pam and Colin, his parents' friends.

"Hm," she continued, "though I suppose I might persuade them to make an exception for you."

Whatever the case, he knew they'd figure something out. Tentatively he lowered his head to press his lips to hers again, his first kiss as her honest-to-goodness boyfriend, light, gentle kisses on her mouth, his hands in her hair then moving down to settle on her back. As she leaned into him, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, as she pulled away to press her cheek to his, he let out a long, slow breath.

His Bridget. He loved the very thought of it.

* * *

NB:

Blind Date, directed by Blake Edwards, was released in August 1987 in the UK.

The Snooty Fox is a real place, and Tracey McLeod of _The Independent_ (mentioned in a review I found) is the real-life Jude.


	7. Chapter 6

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~6,679.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 6_

Abandoning Julie was not the sort of thing Mark would have ordinarily done, and when he went back to where his car was, where he had left her with a pile of rumpled ledgers on the sidewalk, she was gone. He was sure she was going to tell her mother—hell, she had probably called her mother to come and rescue her and her purchases—who would then in turn tell his own mother, who would undoubtedly be both perplexed and annoyed.

He knew he would have to tell his parents about this development with Bridget because he'd always been honest with them. As she took the passenger seat as she had so many times in the past, he told her as much.

She looked nervous. "Can I beg you to wait until I tell my parents first?"

Not saying anything right away seemed dishonest, but with the expression on her face, he knew he could not refuse. He nodded.

As he began the drive, she reached forward to slip her hand under his on the console between them. He glanced over to her, saw her smiling and could not help but smile too.

"Do you want me to come in?" he asked as they arrived at her house.

"Sure," she said. "You can ring up your mum so she knows where you're going."

He furrowed his brow. "Where I'm going?"

"Aren't we going to the theatre?"

He chuckled. "I hadn't thought we'd go today. Tomorrow, maybe. After you've told your parents."

She pursed her lips, then pulled the lower one between her teeth. "You know my mum will let me go anywhere with you, and my dad adores you."

He sighed. "Bridget. Things are different now. They would not react kindly to knowing we were abusing their trust by dating under false pretences."

She was silent for a long while. "I'm afraid they'll not only forbid me from going out on a date," she admitted, "but they'll forbid me from seeing you again."

"Which is why I'm offering to come in and talk to them," he said; the truth was, he was pretty afraid too, afraid that they might think he had already been taking advantage of the trust they'd placed in him, afraid that he might not be able to convince them otherwise. "Maybe if I come in and ask permission…"

She giggled, though remained uneasy. "I suppose it's best to tear the plaster away quickly. Get it over with."

He came with her into the house, and was immediately greeted with enthusiasm by Pam Jones. "Mark!" She said, looking from Mark to her daughter and back again. "I'm so pleased to see the two of you have smoothed over…" She drifted off, her smile fading at seeing their undoubtedly serious expressions. "What's the matter?"

"Mum," said Bridget timidly. "I—" Her voice caught in her throat, and she looked up to Mark as if for guidance.

"I would like to take your daughter to the cinema," blurted Mark.

She blinked, then smiled and laughed. "Well, of course you can, durr! When have I ever not trusted you with my Bridget?"

"Mrs Jones," he said solemnly. "I mean—I'd like to take her _out_."

"Take her out—" she said, then stopped. As he watched her brows raise, saw her mouth form an O, he knew she understood what he was really asking.

Before she could get into a full-on froth, he said, "I'm fully aware of your trust in me, and I assure you I have done nothing to break that trust. We have been talking—" His mind was flooded with the memory of the park, the kiss, the embrace. "—and we have both realised that we feel more than friendship for each other."

"Mum," pleaded Bridget, "we hadn't spoken for two weeks because we didn't agree on this." She reached and took his hand. "Now we do."

Pam's hand fluttered to her throat, and she paled from head to toe. "Oh. Oh my godfathers. Bridget, if he's talked you into something—"

"No," she said. "I brought it up first."

They heard a key in the lock just then; Bridget snatched her hand from Mark's and whipped around to face the door again in time to come face to face with her father.

"Colin!" Pam said immediately. "Mark wants to take Bridget to the cinema!"

Obviously taken aback to be ambushed with such a seemingly inane statement the moment he walked in the door, he said, "He does that all the time. What's the fuss?"

Pam's blue eyes widened in an exaggerated stare, irritated that he had made the same misapprehension that she had. "On a _date_."

"On a—" Colin turned to Mark, who resisted withering under the man's suddenly fierce gaze. "How long has this been going on?"

"Sir, I—"

"How long?" he asked again, his voice as angry as Mark had ever heard it.

He glanced to the clock on the wall, saw the time was just after two in the afternoon. "About an hour and a half," he replied.

"I am deadly serious, young man," Colin said sternly, pointing an index finger quite threateningly at Mark; his cheeks were quite ruddy. "To think I have trusted you with my daughter, _my fifteen-year-old daughter_—"

"Sir," said Mark. "I _am_ being serious." In the periphery of his vision he saw Bridget nodding vehemently.

"It has only been four kisses!" Bridget exclaimed.

Mark and her father looked at her simultaneously. Pam uttered another "Oh my godfathers."

"_Kisses?!_" Colin veritably exploded at her misguided effort to defend Mark.

"Sir," Mark said, feeling as if he were losing the battle. "Simple pecks. That's all."

Again Bridget nodded.

Mark cleared his throat. "I am very much aware of how…" He paused to glance at her, then looked back to Colin and Pam. "How _innocent_ she is."

Colin seemed to realise too, at her eager expression and earnest defence of everything Mark was saying, that she _was_ still innocent, at least when it came to intimate affections, from passionate kissing all the way to sex. "Pam," said Colin. "Take Bridget upstairs, will you?"

"But Colin—"

"Mark and I need to talk." What Colin Jones was truly thinking was impossible for Mark to tell. His face was completely impassive, and that was quite a feat for the usually affable man.

"Dad," said Bridget despondently.

"Come, darling," said Pam, corralling her daughter with one arm and herding her up the stairs. "Do as your father says."

Once they were gone, Colin just stood there, his gaze locked with Mark's, deep in thought. At last he sighed, ran his hand over his face, looking much calmer than he had a few minutes ago, almost weary. "I knew I'd have to have this conversation with a prospective boyfriend one day," he said. "I never dreamed it would be you."

"Neither did I," he said.

"I'm not entirely comfortable with this," said Colin, his voice a little sharper. "But I also know forbidding Bridget from something she wants makes her want it all the more."

"Sir. You can still trust me when it comes to your daughter," he said. "I have no intention of rushing anything, or pushing her into something she's not ready for. She means far too much to me."

Colin regarded him warily, before sighing again. "I can't give you an answer right now, Mark. I'm going to have to think about it, talk to my wife—and you will need to speak to your parents. In fact, I'm sure we will all want to discuss this together."

He nodded, though his stomach plummeted to the floor at the thought of a parental summit meeting over this. "I understand."

"In the meantime, I think you ought to return home straightaway."

Mark did not dare ask if he could say goodbye to Bridget. "Yes, sir."

Colin looked at him a moment more. "You can go up and tell her you're leaving."

Wanly but gratefully he smiled.

He went up to her room and knocked on the door. "Yes?" came her voice in response.

"Just wanted to say goodbye."

The door flew open. Pam was behind her, looking conflicted still.

"Did he say no?" burbled Bridget.

"He didn't say no," Mark explained, "but he didn't say yes, either. He has to think about it."

She sighed, looking to the side, her eyes filling with tears. "I guess this means no film today."

"Not today, no."

He looked down at her; she looked up.

"I'll see you soon," he said, then added, "I hope."

She nodded, then, before she could control herself, launched forward to hug him; he put his arms around her to return the hug and without thinking pressed a parting kiss into her hair. Simultaneously they seemed to come to their senses and remembered Pam Jones was right there; as she stepped back from him with a blush tinting her cheeks, he awkwardly raised his eyes to meet her mother's. To his amazement, she had a slightly more tender expression on her face.

"Goodbye, Mrs Jones," he said politely as he took his leave.

The drive home seemed all too short and all too long at the same time. He felt his pulse begin to race as he walked out of the car and into the house.

"Mark?" It was his mother, who must have heard the door close. "Is that you?"

"Yes," he called back.

Elaine appeared and she looked distraught. "I just had the strangest telephone call from Mavis Enderby."

"I'm sure you did."

"What happened?" she asked.

Mark thought for a moment. Might as well get it all over with. "Is Dad at home?"

With the two of his parents side by side on the sofa on the front room, he took in a great breath. Slowly he told them the story of what had happened that day, backtracking to two weeks prior to the summer fete, then concluding with Julie Enderby and the stationery store. They both listened intently without interrupting once; neither of their expressions changed as he went into his explanation. Of course, being that they were his parents, he did omit some details, like how he'd really wanted to continue to snog her during their dance in the park (as much as he had wanted to deny it at the time), that holding her was lovely, that kissing her soft lips was divine….

"Mark." It was the booming voice of his father. Whereas his mother had gone as pale as Pam Jones, he had gone deep red. "Have you stopped to consider the ramifications here?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're going into the legal field, son," he said, clearly furious. "And that girl is underage. Have you considered you could be accused of—"

"Malcolm!" said Elaine.

"Well, he could!" He pounded his fist down on the arm of the sofa. "This is foolish, and this is deadly serious! You might have ruined your career before it's begun! How could you be so stupid?"

Mark tried to remain calm. "Is your only objection the fact that I could be labelled some kind of statutory rapist?"

Malcolm looked taken aback. "Isn't that a big enough objection?"

"What I mean is: do you happen to object specifically to the fact that 'that girl' is Bridget?" he asked.

"Of course not!" said Malcolm. "I was just a little surprised because I've always thought of her as the daughter I never had."

"Nothing has changed," said Mark.

"Mark, everything has changed," he said, his anger rising again. "If Colin and Pam decide to pursue this legally, your goose is cooked."

"Well," his mother cut in. "I think the answer is clear. You should not see her again."

"What? Why?"

"Clearly she has a crush on you," she said curtly, "and you, flattered by the attention, are feeding it, have convinced yourself that you want this, too, and have taken advantage of her feelings for you. Shame on you."

He was stunned that his own mother would think his intentions so askew. He looked from his father to his mother again, his own anger rising. "That is not true."

"Mark, she's never been anything but like a little sister to you."

"That is also not true," he said. "She has always been very dear to me, as you know, but my feelings—our feelings—have grown in a different direction. The last two weeks without seeing her have shown that to me." His parents seemed to have been shocked into silence. "I have done nothing wrong, and I'm a little hurt that you would think so poorly of my judgment."

It was his mother who spoke at last. Her question was softly asked. "Do you love her?"

He met her gaze without flinching, and answered without hesitation. "Yes."

"And you haven't… taken advantage of her?" she continued.

In any other situation he might have been amused by the euphemism. He decided to fight such equivocation with complete candour. "We have not had sex. I have only just barely kissed her on the lips. Nothing would happen until she is of consenting age… and only if she is ready for such a big step."

Malcolm looked to his wife, she to him, before they looked back to Mark. "Well," said Malcolm in a forbidding yet resigned manner. "You're of age, Mark, and we can't stop you from doing what you want to do, but I urge you to be very, _very_ careful about how you tread going forward."

"I think I've made it clear that that is my intention."

His mother said, "Intentions are all well and good, but in the heat of the moment…"

He closed his eyes as he took a steadying breath. The last thing he wanted was his parents thinking he could not control himself, looking at him like he was some sort of hormone-addled monster. "I give you my word."

His father rose to his feet. He still did not look completely at ease with the situation, but he stuck out his hand. Mark took it and shook it, and he felt overwhelmingly relieved as he did so. Very gravely, he said, "Your word has always been gold, son. I will just have to trust you to do what you say you'll do."

"That is, if Pam and Colin decide to even allow Bridget to see you," said Elaine, then touched him affectionately on the shoulder. His heart sunk at the very thought of the Joneses ruling against him in such a way. "But I think they'll remember you're you, in the end," she added softly.

………

After a restless day and an equally restless night sleep, Mark arrived to breakfast to be advised that Pam and Colin Jones would be joining them for lunch that day for the aforementioned discussion about their future as boyfriend and girlfriend. He nodded and agreed to be present.

"Are they bringing her?" asked Mark.

"I believe so, yes," said Elaine. Mark was surprised she would be included in the discussion, but then Elaine added, "But we've all agreed that she will not be in the room with us. They just don't want to leave her on her own at home."

While he was glad she would be accompanying them, he was irritated on her behalf for their assuming she might set the house alight. "Don't you think it's only fair for her to defend herself?"

"That's what she has you for," said Elaine with a smile. "And it will give you excellent opportunity to practise for your future livelihood."

He was glad that his mother had seemed to come around in her opinion of the situation, or at least he hoped so.

He spent the morning in the garden deep in thought whilst keeping a football aloft with his feet. He was rehearsing in his head all of the things he would say in his defence, in their defence, sure that his arguments would be infallible. He was so deep in thought, however, that he did not realise so much time had passed; he was alternating between keeping it up in the air and booting the ball up to run and kick it again when the Jones' car arrived.

He watched the members of the Jones family emerge from the car at the same time; specifically, his eyes fixed immediately on Bridget, whose eyes were just as immediately drawn to him. She did not have the common sense to hide the look of appreciation as she smiled sweetly, nor was she discreet in allowing her eyes to travel up and down his body, which was clad appropriately for kicking a ball around in the summer heat: shorts and a tank top.

To his utter gratitude, Pam and Colin were also looking at him and not at their daughter. Mark smiled back and hoped it was natural and friendly. "Hi," he said. "Come on in. I'll just get… cleaned up." A rush of momentary panic then relief washed over him; he had nearly let 'get dressed' escape his lips. He swooped down and scooped up the football.

He led them into the house, all too aware that her parents were flanking her in the manner of bodyguards, as if he might do something scandalous in the presence of both his and her parents. He called for his mother, who beckoned them into the dining room. Mark excused himself to wash up quickly and put some fresh clothes on.

It did not surprise him upon his return to the dining room that her parents had remained one on each side of her, unlike their usual dinner configuration: Colin at the head, Bridget to his right, and Pam to Bridget's right. Bridget looked up at him with that same sweet smile on her face. His own seat was between his parents, diagonally opposite to Bridget, about as far away as he could be from her and still be seated at the table.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I lost track of time out there."

"It's all right, just having sandwiches," said his mother with what he recognised to be a forced gaiety.

"They look lovely," said Pam in a high-pitched voice.

"You were doing really great with the football," said Bridget, her blue eyes shining; she rested her chin on the palm of her hand as she leaned her elbow on the table.

"Bridget," said Pam.

"We _can_ talk to each other, can't we?" she said defiantly.

His own mother spoke up. "I don't see why not."

"Thank you," said Mark, pouring himself a glass of water, then turning to pour some for his mother, who thanked him.

"Good sandwiches," said Colin.

"Yes," said Malcolm, taking a hefty bite.

The tension in the air was palpable, and it made Mark anxious. His appetite was meagre at best, and he eyed the sandwich hoping he might avoid eating it altogether.

"I went to the cinema with my friend Tina in Kettering last week," said Bridget, seemingly determined to find normalcy in this weird, awkward situation. "We went to see the stupidest film I've ever seen, so horribly, painfully stupid I've forgotten the title." She drank her own water. "Oh!" She laughed. "It just came to me. _Blind Date_."

Mark looked up and met her eyes, smirking. "I saw that, too."

"Oh, is that the one you saw with Julie, Mark?" queried his mother.

Bridget looked hurt for a moment; he had, after all, told her he'd taken her out and that he'd hated it. His grin only broadened. "That's the one," he said. "She loved it."

Bridget pursed her lips and tried not to laugh, but she did not succeed; she covered her mouth and looked down as he heard the faintest giggle.

"I did find out that they will be showing that film I told you about," she said.

"The Madonna one?"

"No. _Dirty Dancing_."

There was a clatter as Pam dropped her water glass a little too suddenly; it did not spill at least, but it did cause Pam to blanch and say, "Bridget! What kind of film is that?"

"It's a film about dancing, apparently," supplied Mark absently, before he glanced up to see all four parents staring at him. "That's what Bridget told me."

"Bridget will be seeing no film of the sort," said Colin decisively. "And what she does see is likely to be with Tina."

"Colin," said Elaine uneasily, "we said we'd have this conversation after we eat."

"Why not right now?" piped up Bridget. "It's terrible and tense in here and if we just get it over with we can be like we were before."

"Because you are not finished eating," said Pam.

Bridget threw her sandwich onto the plate and folded her arms cross her chest. "I'm finished."

"Fine," said Colin. "You can leave then."

She looked gobsmacked, her mouth hanging open. "What do you—are you saying I can't even stay for a talk about my own _fate_?"

"Don't be so ruddy dramatic," said Pam.

"You'll go," said Colin.

Mark saw her eyes filling with tears, so he said, looking directly at her, "I'll speak up for you. Don't worry."

At that she seemed to calm, then nod and smile a little. However, she stood from the table, grabbed her sandwich and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Even though no one was yet finished with their lunch, it seemed an unspoken agreement that the discussion would begin. "My tendency in this situation is to say no," said Colin. "She's too young." He looked to Mark. "That's nothing against you, Mark. I've always thought you were a very fine young man. We just can't help but think…" He trailed off and looked to his wife over the distance of Bridget's empty seat.

Pam picked up the thread. "We have doubts about… well, not about you, Mark, but about these feelings that seemed to spring up out of nowhere. You've spent a lot of time with Bridget, and we wonder if your fondness for her and her… evident feelings for you aren't persuading you to think that you're…"

"In love?" Mark supplied.

"Well, yes," said Pam.

"And that once you're back at Cambridge, surrounded by beautiful women your own age and of equal life experience, these feelings will fade and you'll leave Bridget with a shattered heart and the two of you with a ruined friendship, one you've built up practically all of your life."

He felt a little blindsided, but he had to admit that their concern was a valid one. He rose from his chair and paced a little, thinking how to respond to the charges laid at his feet (in a manner of speaking). He stopped in a place that allowed easy eye contact with all four of them.

"I do understand why you might feel this way," he said. "I can only assure you that this is not a passing fancy, or that I think myself in love for the sake of convenience." _Rather inconvenient, all things considered_, he thought.

"No one ever does," said Pam.

"There's also the fact that you're twenty years old," said Colin.

"More to the point," added Malcolm, "she's fifteen." He saw his mother nodding in support. "It's not proper, son."

"It isn't a five year gap," said Mark. "She'll have a birthday in a little over two months' time. And I've already explained that I am all too aware of her age… and inexperience. I am perfectly willing to accept that anything… _occurring_ between us will move very slowly." He felt heat flood across his face; he was embarrassed to say it, but knew it must be addressed. "I would not dream of pushing her into something she is not ready for. She is far too dear to me."

He watched as his mother reached across to his father, grasping his hand closest to her. He turned and met her gaze. She smiled at her husband. He saw a similar interaction occur between Pam and Colin.

"This _is_ Mark," said Pam quietly. Colin looked down to the table. "We have always trusted him with her and he has never let us down. They could have easily just carried on behind all of our backs—I'd be surprised if she didn't suggest it…"

Despite everything, he felt a laugh bubbling at the back of his throat. How well they knew their daughter.

Colin sighed heavily, then looked up to Mark again. "I'm going to have to ask you to wait, Mark," he said. Mark felt all blood rush from his face, which Colin must have seen. "Not forever, my boy, but until your Christmas break. That gives you time to decide if this is truly what you want, gives you time and distance apart, and if you both feel the same when you're back in Grafton Underwood on break, then you can take her on a date."

It was better news than he had hoped, better than being forbidden altogether, but the thought of spending the rest of his summer—the entirety of the month of September—so close to her without being able to see her at all hurt him very greatly. "Thank you, sir," he said glumly. "Is it all right if I at least get to spend a little time with Bridget before you leave?"

Colin looked at him like he'd gone mad. "What?"

"Well, you know, if I'm not going to get to see her again until Christmas break…"

Colin unexpectedly chuckled. "We're not going to lock her up in a tower, Mark," he said. "You _can_ see her. Just not on your own."

He smiled, feeling much relieved. "Oh," he said sheepishly. "I apologise. Thank you." He went over to where Colin was and offered his hand for a shake. "I promise I will not disappoint you." He looked to Pam, then reiterated, "I promise."

Mark suspected Bridget's reaction would not be nearly as calm or as grateful. Her mother called her back into the room and her expression upon entering was similar to one of a man being led to execution. She had apparently finished her sandwich.

When her parents told her of their decision, she screwed up her face in frustration and looked at them agape.

"That isn't fair!" she said, casting her gaze between them, lip curled in a pout. He half-expected her to stomp her foot, and hoped she wouldn't lest she be perceived as the child she tried so hard not to be. "Mark's a responsible person and I'm nearly sixteen! I don't see why we can't go out on our own!"

"Bridget," Mark said gently, "the fact is you _aren't_ sixteen yet."

In her aggravation she did in fact stomp her foot, eliciting a smile from him he hastened to suppress. "But Christmas is _months_ from now," she said, her eyes filled with unshed tears, "and you'll be going so far away!"

"We can still see one another until I leave for uni," he reminded, "and even then, I'll come home and visit on the weekend when I can. It's only an hour away."

She seemed slightly mollified and even smiled a little.

"Though obviously you have your studies," his mother spoke up.

He nodded. "When I can."

She sighed. "I guess it will have to do," she said resignedly.

"Well," said Elaine. "Now that this is over with, if everyone wants to finish up their lunch, I've made chocolate cake."

"If you'd like, Mark," said Pam, "we can exchange seats."

Being allowed to sit next to him brought a full smile back to her face. He suspected that chocolate cake did not hurt, either.

Colin said as he tucked into his cake, "Mark, if you're not doing anything this afternoon, you're welcome to come by. I think Bridget was planning on watching some film on the telly."

"We'll both be home," added Pam, more to the Darcys than to Mark.

"That would be very nice, Mr and Mrs Jones," he said cordially. "Thank you."

Knowing she would get to watch her film with Mark brightened her mood by leaps and bounds. As she finished eating, she leaned in close to whisper, "I'm still not crazy about being chaperoned, but it's better than nothing."

With this he wholeheartedly agreed.

………

The Joneses left shortly thereafter; Mark helped his mother clear the table before he was to drive over to their house himself. "I thought that went well," she said, pausing to look at him. "I thought you handled yourself wonderfully. Respectful and eloquent. I'm sure you helped to set their minds at ease."

He smiled. "I hope it set yours at ease, too."

"Yes," she said, looking at him fondly. "Sometimes it surprises me that you're so mature already, even though it shouldn't."

He went to her and pecked a kiss on her cheek. "I'm going to head over there now. I will let you know if I won't be back for supper."

When he got there Bridget smiled as she let him in. Her hair was down loose again, freed from the ponytail she'd worn earlier, and she was radiantly happy. "Hi," she said as she stepped back to let him in.

"Hello Mark," called Pam Jones from the upper floor, immediately reminding him they would have company for the duration.

"Hello again," he called back.

"Make yourself comfy," Pam continued. "I'll be back down in a jiffy."

"Where's your father?" Mark asked.

"Dad's at the dining room table doing paperwork for his job," Bridget explained.

Mark glanced around quickly in an almost exaggerated fashion, then reached down and gave her a little kiss. This made her giggle. She took his hand and led him to the sitting room, though it was not as if he didn't know the layout of this house as well as his own. She had a couple of glasses of soda waiting for them on the coffee table by the sofa, as well as a bowl of crisps. Also sitting there, which he almost did not notice at first, was a gift of some sort, wrapped sloppily in colourful paper, and an obviously handmade card. He was immediately overwhelmed with emotion—she had kept to birthday tradition, after all.

As they took a seat, she explained, seeing where his gaze had alighted, "I had this for you on your birthday but I didn't want to bring it over or ask Mum to run it over to you…. I'm sorry everything happened like it did and I didn't get to see you that day."

She looked like a stricken puppy; he wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her close to him, but he dared not with the possibility of Pam Jones appearing at any moment. He didn't want to risk undoing the good he'd done earlier that day. "It's all right," he said, "though I certainly missed your being there."

She smiled, then reached for the present and card and handed it to him. "Card first."

The design on the front of the card was of lively lines and patterns forming two figures to either side of a cake with candles, a line drawing filled in with what looked like watercolours. It was clear though she had made this just before his birthday; the undertones of the sadness she'd experienced after confessing her feelings were impossible to miss though in the colours she'd chosen, in the figures to each side of the cake being so far apart. Inside she had written 'Happy birthday—I wish I could share this day with you' just above where she had signed her name. The heart she usually drew after signing her name on his card was conspicuously absent.

"Oh, hold on," she said as she read the card over his shoulder. She took it, went to the writing desk, and scribbled something that he soon learned (as she handed the card back) was the missing heart. She had not added one, though; she had drawn three.

He looked up at her sweet smiling face, and realised he had been a fool to have resisted falling in love with her for even a moment.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Mark," she said, "you haven't opened the gift yet."

He laughed. He had not.

He pulled the paper off of what he had guessed to be a book based solely on its heft and shape, but the title and author that greeted him as he did so surprised him beyond words. It was a copy of _Lost Empires_, a book that he had mentioned once in their discussion of fiction and literature, had mentioned how he had been interested in reading it, how difficult a time he'd had in locating a copy.

"Do you like it?" she asked in a timid voice, though it seemed all too obvious she knew he did from the self-satisfied look on her face.

"Bridget, I don't know what to say," he said at last. "Where in the world did you find a copy when the greatest used bookstores in Cambridge and London have turned up empty?"

Her smile broadened. "I spotted it at the church rummage sale two months ago. Three pounds fifty. Deal of the century!"

At that he could not suppress a laugh nor the impulse to give her a hug, planting a kiss on her cheek before letting go again. "It's marvellous," he said, then teased, "though it's kind of gauche to let on what you paid for it."

"Oh, whoops, sorry," she said with a blush.

"Never mind that," he said, reaching to kiss her lips again, damn the possibility of being caught. "It'd still be one of the top presents I'd ever received even if you'd fished it out of a dustbin."

She continued to beam a smile until she spotted the clock on the mantle. "Bugger!" She jumped up to switch on the telly, then flipped it around to the right channel. It really mattered little to him what the film actually was; he was glad to have the opportunity to spend the time with her in a semi-alone fashion. "Bugger," she said again. "It's already begun."

"Did we miss much?"

"About five minutes."

He looked to her. "Does it really matter?"

She smiled crookedly. "No, I suppose not."

She sat next to him again, a respectful distance between them, as her mum came in. "Mark, Bridget, what's on?"

"_Sabrina_," she said with a smile as she looked up to her mother.

"Oh, Audrey Hepburn," said Pam. "Always did love her. Well, I'll just be dusting and tending to the roast in the oven… I'll save the hoovering for tomorrow."

"Okay."

The film was one he had never seen before, but he was able to pretend, even if only for a short while, that he and Bridget were not on the sofa of her parents' house but were in the cinema on their own at a classic film showing. As the story unfolded and the plot that put an older man and a younger woman together was revealed, he thought it was probably completely coincidental, but the similarity to their own situation was not lost on him, nor on her, evident as she commented during one of the commercial breaks, "Well, at least you're not as old as he is, and you're far less grumpy."

He chuckled. She scooted closer to him, looking around the room, and after determining they were momentarily alone, she leaned in and pecked a sweet kiss on his lips. He slipped an arm about her shoulders; she leaned against him.

"What about stern and disapproving?" he asked, thinking back to his lectures on smoking and drinking.

"Mm," she said thoughtfully, then turned to look up at him, a wry grin on her face. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Would you rather I said all the time?"

He chuckled again, looking down at her, the temptation to lean down and kiss her too great to resist, again just a light peck on her lips as he snuggled her to him.

At the sound of her mother's footsteps she hurriedly broke away from him and leaned forward to grab the bowl of crisps from the coffee table. "Have some," she said; "these are really good." She set the bowl on his knee. He put his arm around her shoulder again.

"My mum…" she began warily.

"Will be able to see we are merely enjoying a film together, and that I prefer to have you sitting closer to me."

She smiled, then settled in, leaning on him again to continue watching the film. Her mother made obvious reappearances, but said nothing about the placement of his arm and hand. In fact, he would have sworn he saw her faintly smiling.

He saw Bridget yawning once or twice out of the corner of his eye. "Bored?" he joked.

"No," she said, chuckling low in her throat. "A little sleepy. Had a terrible time of it last night. Was afraid you were going to be banned from my life or something. Tossed and turned and fretted in misery."

"I'm sorry." He leaned to peck a kiss into her hair. It was a good film, but he felt fatigue settling in as well. "I slept poorly myself."

After a moment, she said, "Glad you're not banned from my life."

His only response was to kiss her hair again.

He did not recall drifting off to sleep, only realised he had done so when he heard Bridget's parents' voices quietly speaking. He peeked an eye open and saw that Bridget had fallen dead away into slumber, her face angelic as she did.

"I don't suppose a film in the afternoon would have been such a terrible idea," she said, and Mark suspected she was not talking about their currently sitting in front of a telly watching _Sabrina_. "He does seem to care the world for her."

"He's a boy," said Colin. "A young man. And he might be a decent, upstanding young man, but he's still a young man, and young men want certain things."

"Oh Colin, _honestly_," said Pam. "Go in there and see how adorable they look." Mark felt his skin flush with embarrassment.

"Pam," Colin said, "a darkened theatre is just as dark in the afternoon as it is in the evening. No, Pam, I won't be persuaded that we've made a mistake in this decision."

He opened his eyes fully, looking to her again, then after kissing her temple gingerly, he very slowly manoeuvred himself off of the couch, slipping his arm out from behind her, tenderly lowering her to rest her head on the pillow. He stood and stretched his arms up, combing his fingers back through his hair, then reached down for his card and book. Turning around, he saw that the Joneses were still standing in the entryway. Pam turned to him as he walked towards them.

"Mark!" she said in her surprise. "Everything all right?"

"Yes, thanks," he said. "The film's over, and I just thought it best if I left her to her nap. She's obviously tired."

"Oh," she said.

"Thank you very much for inviting me over this afternoon. I enjoyed the film, and I very much enjoyed the time with Bridget. Tell her I didn't want to wake her but that I hope to see her soon."

"School starts on Monday," said Colin.

He nodded, though he had forgotten that the summer break was shorter for her.

"She can phone you later," Pam said gently.

He smiled. "Thanks. Have a good evening."

It was not yet five in the afternoon, still quite sunny and bright. As he drove back home, he smiled a little smugly to himself. He felt in a way as if he had passed the first test. He could do this for the remainder of his break; he would do this until the Michaelmas Term was over.

* * *

NB:

Age of consent in England and Wales is 16.

J. B. Priestley was the author of "Lost Empires", which was first published in 1965.


	8. Chapter 7

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,362.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 7_

"Are you able to come over tonight?" she asked, her voice seeming all too distant over the telephone line. "Mum made a raspberry pavlova for dessert."

He had been at her house two nights out of three since they'd watched _Sabrina_ together. He didn't want to wear out his welcome. "I'm free," he said, "but I doubt you are."

"I've done my homework already," she said. "I promise."

"Your mum and dad don't mind?"

"No, in fact, I overheard Dad say how the possibility of your visiting motivates me to get my work finished faster."

He chuckled. "So you have specifically asked your mum if it's okay for me to stop by for dessert?"

"Well," she began hesitantly. "_No_. But she'll be fine with it."

"May I speak to your mum?"

She sighed heavily. "Hold on." He heard her put her hand over the receiver, but even still could hear her scream for her mother before speaking into it again. "Here she is."

"My goodness, Bridget, you could wake the dead with that voice of yours. Yes, hello?"

"Mrs Jones, it's me, Mark."

"Hello again," she said brightly.

"Bridget's asked me over for dessert and I wanted to make sure to clear it with you first."

"Oh, yes, that's fine," she said, "but I do appreciate your thoughtfulness in asking in advance. Here's Bridget again. Bridget! I told you to finish that math problem before calling."

"Mother!" she said in horror.

There was a moment of utter silence as she took the telephone back.

"Math problem?" he said, his tone teasing.

"I'm almost finished with it, but it's really hard, and I couldn't concentrate thinking about asking you over," she said. "I'll have it finished by the time you get here, I swear."

He should have realised this was either self-delusion or wishful thinking on her part. When he arrived, she met him at the door for a stolen little kiss. "Come to the kitchen," she said, grabbing his hand and tugging. He didn't move.

"Wait."

"What?"

"Your homework."

She flushed. He tried to keep a serious demeanour, but it was difficult when she looked so adorably guilty.

"Did you think I would forget?"

"I thought…" She sighed. "I _hoped_ you might. I should have known better."

"Yes, you should. Let's have it, then."

"It's in my room."

He wasn't sure if it was some challenge to see if he could be tricked to go off alone with her, but he resisted. "Go and get it. I'll go to the kitchen and wait there."

Upon entering the kitchen, he was greeted by not Pam but Colin Jones. "Mark. Glad you could join us." From the expression on his face, these were not empty words.

"Mr Jones." He spotted the fruit-topped dessert. "It appears Mrs Jones has outdone herself again."

"Indeed," he said. "I might be two stone lighter but for her desserts. Have a seat."

He had just settled in at the table with Bridget came in then with her textbook and notebook clutched to her chest. "Hi Dad." She sat beside Mark, flipping open the book. "Here's the one. I can't make sense of it at all."

He looked at the problem and a familiar bell rang deep in the corner of his mind, but it had been an age since he'd had algebra. It took him a moment to undo the tangle of information presented. The subject of the chapter was the formulation of functional relationships, and in this particular problem, the goal was to determine the value of 'x'.

"Well, if I remember correctly," he said, "you have to work out the values in the parentheses first, then work your way out until you get 'x' all on its own, as it relates to 'y'."

"But 'x' doesn't want to be alone," she said with a chuckle; "'x' wants to stay with 'y', get married and have hordes of children."

It seemed as if she'd suddenly lost her mind. "What?" he asked.

"It's a joke," she said. "We had a good laugh in class about forming functional relationships."

At this he began to laugh too. "If only 'z' from the next problem would just stop meddling."

With his direction (albeit a bit rusty) she was able to get to a solution. She smiled proudly at him. "I never would have gotten through that. Thank you." She bounced up out of the chair, sweeping up the book and the notebook. "I'll go get Mum. Be right back."

"You know," said Colin after she'd gone, "rather too bad you're so far away. You got through to her faster than Pam and I could have done combined, which is twice as difficult when she's in a stubborn mood."

The compliment was not lost on him. It meant a lot. "Always a pleasure."

Bridget and her mother reappeared within moments and Pam smiled at him as she reached for some plates and carved into the pavlova. "I hear that you got Bridget through that pesky last problem," she said.

"Yes," Mark replied.

She winked. "Such a good influence you are on her," she said. Her compliment was also not lost on him.

Though the pavlova was delicious, the raspberry topping was a little too sweet; he ate his portion dutifully along with a cup of tea. They engaged in small talk, discussing the oncoming school term that Mark would be tackling, and the classes Bridget was currently taking. She was studying French again, which she rolled her eyes in disgust at the mention of. "I'm never going to be a master at foreign language," Bridget declared. "Well, I might be if you were here to tutor me."

"It would not take much to persuade me when I'm home to see you."

She reached out and placed her hand on his, curling her fingers around to grasp his. Her eyes did not leave his; it was as warm and as comfortable as any embrace could be.

"Excellent as always, Pamela," said Colin, standing up then kissing his wife on the cheek. "Mark, good night," he added.

"Good night, sir," he said in return. He had been through this routine a few times already; it was nine-thirty in the evening and he knew she was expected to get her things together to go to bed by ten. They all rose from the table; Pam walked with the two of them into the foyer. Mark could hear that Colin Jones had put on the telly.

Pam looked from Mark to Bridget. "Oh, Mark, let me send you home with the rest of the pavlova for your parents. It never keeps well, you know…. I'll be but a moment." With a bright smile she strolled to the back of the house and to the kitchen, but not before offering another quick wink to Mark. He was floored. Was she slipping away on purpose to give them a moment together?

Her father was just in the next room and he was not tempted to venture into any new territory, but he did take advantage of the opportunity given to him to pull her into his arms, comb his fingers back through her long tresses, then kiss her softly on the lips. "I'm glad your parents are allowing us these evenings before I go," he said quietly.

She nodded, though looked sad. "I hate that you'll be so far away."

"I'm not leaving tomorrow," he said. "And it isn't that far."

"It is when you don't drive."

He chuckled then held her close again, his cheek pressed to her silky hair; he closed his eyes, took in a deep breath to savour the scent of her perfume before placing a kiss on her head again.

He was so lost in this moment that he did not hear Pam's approach. Her voice startled him into opening his eyes again. Equally startled was he by the mundanity of what she said:

"Here you are, Mark. Try not to jostle it around too much."

He let Bridget go gracefully and reached for the carrier bag; her blush was world-class in scale and depth. "Thank you, Mrs. Jones."

"For pity's sake, Mark, you can call me Pam," she said, patting his shoulder. "Well, good night."

"Good night… Pam," he said hesitantly; it would take some getting used to, calling her by her first name. He then looked to Bridget. "Good night."

"Night, Mark," she said. She reached for his hand again. He thought he might risk a quick kiss on the cheek—and did. Pam said nothing.

He was careful not to upset the bag with the pavlova in it as he went to the car and drove back home. He had to be careful. His mind was otherwise too occupied with what had occurred, how happy he was that they were already seeing how sincere he was in his words through his actions.

………

It was usually more convenient for Mark to go to the Jones' house simply because it was easier for him to drive there than for her to have someone bring her over in the evenings between supper and her bedtime, but his mother thought it might be nice for her to come over and spend time with them at their house. "We do want her to feel welcome," Elaine had said to him, "and we do want to get to know better the young woman she's become." He thought it very promising, indeed.

It was his mother who also came up with the idea of a walk in the park that Saturday afternoon; it was not so far into September that it was too chilly to be outdoors, and it was rather the perfect day to spend in the sun. The local Rotary group was having a craft fair there, and Elaine always liked to have a look around. "Plus," she said, "your father might despise these things, but even he can't deny he could use the fresh air."

"Sounds fine," he said, then decided to be forthright about his intention for the day. "I plan on holding her hand, you know. While we're walking."

His mother only chuckled. "I'd've been surprised if you hadn't wanted to," she said with a smirk.

Mark drove the three of them and picked up Bridget on the way. She seemed surprised to see that his parents had chosen to sit together in the back seat, leaving the passenger seat free for her. She smiled politely and sat down. After he pulled out of the drive, he reached over and grasped Bridget's hand. She glanced to him and grinned.

There were more booths than he was expecting. Bridget was excited to see so many. She was especially interested in the jewellery booths, which was odd to him since she never wore any herself, and did not even have pierced ears. "I just think it's pretty, that's all," she said, her eyes sweeping over a display of hand-beaded earrings and necklaces. "So talented, to be able to make this."

They next wandered over to a potter's booth, and someone selling framed photographs. He didn't intend on buying anything at the Grafton Underwood Rotary craft show, instead took great interest in which things she admired and was drawn to. Even though he knew her pretty well, it wasn't too early to try to come up with ideas for her sixteenth birthday present, after all.

His parents were never very far behind, but stayed at a discreet distance. Mark got the impression that the majority of people there were there to celebrate summer's last hurrah; there were far more teenagers than he would have expected at a craft show of this nature. It pleased him to see grabby-handed Anthony looking shocked at their handholding. They saw Tina as well, who seemed pleased to see them, if a bit jealous (if it wasn't too flattering to his own ego think so). She introduced him to some other friends who appeared surprised, as if she had previously told them at school, but they hadn't believed her.

"Of course they didn't believe you," he said confidentially yet teasingly once they'd dispersed. "You tried to pull the wool over their eyes at that party we went to together, when I caught you smoking with Tina."

"Oh, quiet," she said, turning pink.

After a few minutes, he said, "You know, I don't know how I didn't see it then." He did not need to elaborate what he meant; she had already confessed to having had a crush long before she'd admitted it. When he thought back over some situations that had truly puzzled him at the time, he realised they were all explained by her secret crush.

"I'm sort of glad you didn't," she replied. "I was too young and you would have stayed away from me, just as you did now."

"That was only two years ago," he said.

"Two years is a long time when you're thirteen," she said. It quite possibly was one of the most profound things she had ever said.

As it turned out, they were fated to run into yet one other person that day, one Mark should have gone to see earlier but had been too caught up in his newly changed relationship with Bridget to do so.

Julie Enderby said nothing at first, just sized up Mark with her eyes, gave Bridget a cool look, then looked pointedly at their joined hands. "Doing a bit of babysitting, Mark?" she asked. "I thought Bridget was old enough to cross the street without needing handholding."

"As a matter of fact, no," he said, keeping his temper in check; sensing Bridget wanted to lash out, he tightened his grip to signal she shouldn't. "I'm sorry for leaving you so suddenly that day, but…"

"But clearly you decided robbing cradles was more important," she finished.

"I decided I needed to be with a girl I truly love," he said evenly.

Julie fixed Bridget with a glare, but before she could get out an insult, Bridget said, her eyes deceptively innocent, "It's not my fault he prefers someone who doesn't have a stick jammed up their bottom."

Julie's mouth dropped open in exasperation. "Well," she said, clearly at a loss for a suitable riposte, "you certainly deserve each other, don't you?" She turned on her heel and stalked away.

Mark could not help but smile, but he saw that Bridget actually looked upset. His demeanour quickly changed. "Hey," he said, letting go of her hand in order to wrap his arm about her shoulders. "Are you all right?"

She shrugged. It was a sure sign that she was not all right.

"Come on," he said. He walked her over to a park bench away from the crowd, then sat beside her. "Tell me what's wrong."

"She's always been so awful to me," she said quietly.

"And you never antagonised her?" he asked.

She looked up to him, a bit of fierceness returned to her expression. "I admit that I've sometimes been a pain in the bottom, but she deserved it every time."

"She told me about a certain incident with a chocolate cake."

"What, where I ate the icing?" she asked. "Yes, I'm sure she didn't tell you that my mum had already told me I could have some cake, but Julie then decided I was being too noisy—writing in my notebook, mind you—and therefore I couldn't have any."

"No," he said. "She didn't mention that."

She regarded him, a little puzzled. "So you talked about me?"

He smiled. "Yes. Quite a lot, actually. Probably to Julie's irritation."

She smiled too.

"You were on my mind," he continued. He raised his hand to touch her cheek, stroking it gently with his thumb. "Everything we talked about reminded me of something you'd said or done, or of something we'd done together…. I took her to see that film and I could not help but think of the funny comments you would have made about it." After a moment he added, "You were never far from my mind. You never are."

Her lower lip trembled with emotion, then she launched herself forward, pressing her lips to his and keeping them there. Were it any other girl he would have been very tempted to part his lips and kiss her passionately, pull her up against him and hold her close, but this was Bridget, and he'd made promises not only to her parents and his own, but to himself as well. So he only pulled back and held her in a tight, comforting hug, the flat of his hand moving in a slow and steady arc on her upper back.

"What do you say," he said at last, "to a little something from the food booth? I'm feeling hungry, and I think I saw the fish and chip vendor was here."

"Okay," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

He saw motion in his periphery; he turned his head to see his mother shifting her weight from one foot to another as she stood there. He didn't know how much she'd heard or seen, but judging from the emotional expression on her own face, it had clearly been enough. "Mark," she said with exaggerated volume. "There you are!"

Bridget pushed away and ran her fingers over her cheeks. There were tears there, but they were not from sadness. She smiled reassuringly to Mark, then turned to face his mother. "Hi, Mrs Darcy," she said.

"Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," she declared, rising to her feet. "Mark just suggested something to eat."

"Oh, excellent idea," she said. "I remember seeing a curry vendor. I could go for a bit of a curry."

They all had lunch together, and it was very cosy; he could tell by his mother's expression—and his father's too—that they were very pleased to be in her company, and that they enjoyed her stories, her wit, her charm and her vivacity.

"By the way, Mark," Bridget said as she sipped from her soda, "my mother said to invite you for supper, if you want to come."

He laughed and nodded. As if he would not want to come.

They had exhausted the booths by this point, but continued walking through the park. His parents were walking in front and had allowed them to fall back. He released her hand; at her confused look he put his arm around her shoulders. With a smile, she slipped an arm around his waist, grasped his hip with her hand. They continued their walk through the verdant, sun-dappled park with her like this for the remaining time they spent in the park, but in truth, he could only think of her hand on his hip.

It was in innocence, he knew, that she had placed it there, and she had only done so after he had put his arm around her shoulders. Unfortunately, it affected him no less for this knowledge. It distracted him even as he drove her home, pecked her cheek before she left to go back in her house, returned home with his parents and dressed for dinner.

It distracted him because he could only think about what it would be like to finally kiss her, _really_ kiss her; to feel her hands on his skin; to have her with him in a more intimate embrace than he'd ever had with her… and it all felt somehow sinful. She was his girlfriend, she was lovely, but she was young and innocent. Thinking about her in terms of physical intimacy seemed somehow wrong.

"Are you all right?"

Bridget asked this part way through supper at the Jones' house; he realised all three of them were looking at him as she did.

"I'm fine," he said. "Sorry. I blame it on the fresh air."

"Bridget tells us you had a really nice day today," said Pam.

"Yes," he said. "I had a wonderful time."

"I'm so glad the rain that was forecasted didn't come to be," she said. "Perfect blue skies all day. Was the basket weaver there, Bridget?"

"The who?"

"The basket weaver, remember? I told you to look and see if that fellow with the bamboo baskets was there and to get a card…"

"Oh," she said. "No, sorry, I don't remember seeing any baskets there."

"Well, no matter. He always comes to the Christmas Bazaar…"

He noticed that Bridget herself looked distracted, even a little pale. "Um, I hate to ruin the evening," she said, "but I've got, um…" She put her arms over her stomach, a sort of sign language for something he did not quite understand, but her mother did. "I don't feel so great. I think I'll skip dessert." She had not even cleared her plate.

"Oh, poor dear. I'll put together a hot water bottle for you to take upstairs to your room, and be sure to have something for the pain." Her mother jumped from her seat to prepare the hot water bottle. Bridget sat there looking glum then looked to Mark.

"I'm sorry you'll have to go so soon," she said.

"I'm sorry too," he said.

"Stay for some dessert, though," she said. "Please."

It was a vanilla pound cake that he had really been looking forward to trying. "I will. I could bring you a slice—"

"No, no," she said vehemently, rising from the table as she took the hot water bottle. "I can't even think about it, makes me feel a little sick. Just need a little nap." She went around to peck him on the cheek. "I'll see you later." She then went out of the kitchen, and he heard her tromp up the stairs.

Dessert was quieter without Bridget there, but not unpleasant. As seemed to be the custom, Pam rose and wrapped up two slices for his own parents. "Well, Mark, I'm sure we'll see you soon," she said to him with a smile.

He rose and kissed her cheek. "Goodbye, Mrs Jones, and good night," he said. He went over to shake Colin's hand. "And to you, too, sir."

"Oh, Mark, I said to call me Pam," she said.

"Old habits die hard," he said with a smile.

He strode out the front door, thoughts of Bridget feeling ill occupying his consciousness. It must not have been too serious, but he wished there'd been more he could have done. He started up the car and drove off into the night.

He might have made it all the way home but for a sudden sound that came from the back seat. It startled him so badly he pulled off of the road.

The sound was a sneeze.

He undid his safety belt and turned in his seat, heard a quiet, "Bugger." He looked over into the back seat. Bridget was lying back there, smiling in such a way that begged him forgiveness. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I was going to tell you I was back here when you stopped at the main intersection—"

"Bridget!" he barked, interrupting her. "What the hell are you doing back there?"

"I thought we might drive up to Kettering and catch the late show."

He sat back down, fixed the safety belt again, and put the car in gear. He did a hasty U-turn and headed back towards the Jones' house.

"What are you doing?" she asked from behind him.

"Taking you home," he said crossly.

"Mark!" she said, exasperated, as if all of her clever planning was unappreciated.

"I am not doing this," he said, depressing the accelerator pedal. "I'm not taking you out against your parents' wishes and undoing the all of the trust I've built with them."

"But I'm already out of the house," she said.

"Not for long."

He was so angry with her for taking such a stupid risk that he said nothing for the rest of the short drive. He parked the car again, stood, then pulled the back door open.

"Come on."

She climbed out, looking defiant even as she did. He grabbed her upper arm, then marched her to the front door, which he rapped upon soundly.

The door opened. It was a very surprised-looking Colin. "Mark?" He then saw his daughter. "Bridget?"

"Sir, she snuck out of the house and into my car. I brought her back as soon as I found her there."

Mark couldn't say that Colin looked all that surprised, but turned to her and asked, "Bridget, is this true?"

"Yes, but I only wanted—"

"Get in your room. Now."

His booming voice stopped her short. She looked up at Mark with an expression of betrayal before passing by her father and into the house.

"I'm sorry," said Mark. "If this changes the way things have to be, I understand. I will wait for her to… grow up if I have to."

Rather than agree and slam the door in his face, Colin merely regarded him. "I don't think that's necessary, Mark. She'll be punished for sneaking out. You won't be able to see her tomorrow, I'm afraid. But I think you've demonstrated yet again I can take you at your word."

Given the circumstances, he thought it improper to smile, but it was far more than he was hoping for. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

"You'd better go, get that cake back to your parents before it goes stale." Colin extended his hand for a shake, which Mark took and shook. "Don't worry. We'll make sure she doesn't hate you for being a responsible adult."

He doubted very much that she would actually hate him, but he knew she would be extremely annoyed. He would not, however, be persuaded that he was not in the right.

………

Mark's day seemed empty and too quiet without a visit or a phone call from Bridget. He suspected her parents had punished her rather severely, forbidding her from even using the telephone. Outwardly he did not let it show, but despite his being irritated at her for pulling such a ridiculous move, he missed her terribly, and felt even now that his intentions of visiting only when he was able to would never be able to stand up to the reality of it. He was sure he would be putting a lot of mileage on his car.

"Mark, are you busy?"

His mother's voice startled him from his thoughts as he walked into the kitchen for something to snack on.

"No, I'm not. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you see," she began, "I can't leave the house with this soufflé in the oven, Pam desperately needs her cake dish back, and she's got some confectioner's sugar I'll need for later. Could I persuade you to drive over there for me?"

It was subtle, but it was there: the very corner of her mouth was turned upwards. He had told her what Bridget had done, and had voiced sympathy for his anger and disappointment in this turn of events. Even still, she had always been sensitive to his feelings in that way that only a mother could, and he was sure the fact that he was missing Bridget terribly was not something he was able to hide well from her.

"Mother, Pam is going to see right through this—"

"Mark," she said firmly, "Pam told me to send you."

He blinked, then felt a smile slip into place. He wasn't so peckish that it couldn't wait until he returned.

With cake dish in tow, he hopped in his car and shot over to the Jones'. Colin was clearly still at work. He rapped on the door and was greeted by a smiling Pam.

"Oh, Mark," she said in a voice too loud to be without purpose. "Thank you for stopping by with the dish. If you give me a moment I'll get the sugar your mother needs."

He heard a scrambling akin to a herd of elephants rumble on the upper floor, then watched as Bridget nearly tripped over her own feet trying to get down the stairs. "Hi," she said, stopping midway down. She looked torn: happy to see him, but still annoyed that he'd gotten her in trouble.

"He isn't staying," said Pam snippily. "Say your hellos." She smiled nicely at Mark before heading for the kitchen.

She padded her way down the rest of the way. "I'm not allowed out," she said sulkily.

"I thought as much."

"I can't even use the phone."

"That explains the radio silence," he said coolly.

"Still can't believe you got me into hot water with Mum and Dad," she said.

"I think it's safe to say you got yourself in trouble," he said, "and I only prevented our both being punished in the long run."

"Your mum and dad can't punish you," she said with a sniff.

"That's true." He stepped closer to her. "But your parents can punish me by rescinding my ability to see you at all. If they can't trust me, they'll do that."

"You're just siding with them," she said, folding her arms over her chest.

"Actually, if you must know, I'm just being selfish."

"What?"

"In the end, I'm looking out for my own best interests, and I'm not going to let anything or anyone hurt my chance of seeing you, up to and including… _you_."

She blinked as if in surprise; at last she appeared to be moved by his words. Her arms fell once more to her sides, her voice pleading as she spoke. "But I only wanted to spend time with you alone."

"I know you did," he said. "You just have to accept the restrictions in the short term for the good of the longer term."

She pursed her lips. "You were born to be a barrister, I think."

He chuckled. "The short version is 'patience'."

Her mouth slowly smoothed out into a smile. "I don't know if you've noticed," she said, "but I have never been good at patience."

He laughed and held his hand out. When she reached out and took it, he pulled her into a quick hug. "Oh, I've noticed," he said. "So are you still angry?"

"Not really, no," she said, keeping his hand in hers as he released her from the hug. "I mean, I'm upset that my plan fell apart, but I do understand I guess why you brought me home." She sighed. "It would have worked so well, too."

"It would have worked with someone who had no scruples whatsoever," he admonished, "but not with me. Don't try it again."

"Here we are!" sing-songed Pam as she came closer to entering the entryway. Mark and Bridget stepped back as if on cue, both looking at Pam. She had a plastic quart storage bag filled with powdered sugar. "Bridget, your father will be home at any moment, so you ought to get back upstairs. Go on."

"May I…?" she began, then trailed off.

"Oh, I suppose," said Pam, discreetly turning away as Bridget got up on her toes, put her arms around his neck, and pecked him on the lips before bounding up the stairs, stopping a moment to look back and smile at him before disappearing from sight.

"It's hard, you know," said Pam, looking up the stairs at the last place Bridget was visible.

"Hard?"

Pam turned to face Mark again. "For us, but especially for Colin, to accept she's not a little girl anymore."

Mark smiled sympathetically. "It was hard enough for me only as a friend… I can only imagine how difficult it has been for you both."

Pam smiled. "I can't tell you how good it is to know that I—we—really can trust her with you."

To know that their opinion of him had not only not changed but seemed to have improved pleased him greatly. "To that end," he asked, "when will she be paroled?"

Pam smiled, and advised him that she didn't expect Bridget's incarceration to last much longer. "Early release on good behaviour, I hope," she said. "She should be free to see you on the weekend."


	9. Chapter 8

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,871.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 8_

Returning to Cambridge was as difficult as Mark had thought it would be. Equally predictably, he found himself wearing a path on the road between the university and Grafton Underwood just about every weekend. The teasing he took from his roommate was merciless and unrelenting.

"'Girlfriend'," Daniel had snorted; "more like 'childfriend'."

"If you saw her, which you will never do," Mark had replied, "you would think her the same age as any woman here."

"So she's…?" He'd trailed off, holding his hands in front of him, miming a big chest.

She was well-endowed even for her age, but he was not about to say so. He'd only scowled at his friend.

"Won't confirm or deny, how typical." Daniel had then reacted with a dismissive sound. "At least throw me a bone and give me her name."

"Nothing. No details. I'm giving you nothing with which you can possibly corrupt her with your wicked ways."

"She'll call eventually."

"She won't," Mark had informed him. "I told her not to run up her parents' phone bill."

At this Daniel had collapsed into helpless laughter.

The longest he had gone without speaking to her was three days, when took a drive down to London with Daniel and some other mates for a Friday football match. While there, while doing some shopping, he ventured past a display that caught his eye immediately, and he knew at once that the centrepiece of this display was the perfect present for Bridget's sixteenth birthday. He didn't care that it was probably the single most expensive purchase he had ever made. It was beautiful, and he wanted her to have it.

"Do I get to see it?" Daniel had nosily asked.

"No," Mark had replied. He'd had to bring it back with him to Grafton Underwood, hide it in his bedroom there, for safe keeping.

It was one such weekend visit that he was pulled aside by Bridget's father for a private chat, whilst he was waiting for her to return from the market with her mother; Mark turned up early. "Mark, my boy," said Colin, "I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate how well you've kept to your word."

"Thank you, sir," Mark said.

"Very impressed," Colin added, further emphasising his point. "So impressed, in fact, that I want to let you know that… Pam and I have decided if you want to take Bridget out on her birthday, you may do so."

Mark's brows shot up in surprise. "Take her out?" he asked, disbelieving his ears.

Colin nodded. "I think you have amply demonstrated that you can be trusted to do the right thing. That you are clearly still devoted to her. That you are very happy with her, and she with you." He cleared his throat. "That you are very good for her, as you always have been."

Mark knew that this admission was not an easy one for him to make, so his voice was duly grateful as he said, "Thank you very much."

"You're welcome," he said. "Now her birthday falls on a Monday this year, which puts a bit of a wrinkle in everything, but—"

"I'm free for the day after four," he said quickly. "I can make the drive afterwards." He thought what a lovely surprise this would be for her, then wondered if it would be a surprise at all. "Did you already tell her?"

Colin shook his head in the negative. "I thought you would want to tell her yourself."

He grinned. "Actually, I think I'd rather not. I'd like to surprise her. Maybe you could… I don't know, tell her you're taking her out for dinner so she'll be ready."

Colin's expression was surprisingly conspiratorial. "Yes, I think that'd be nice."

On top of that, he thought he might come up with an excuse not to come to Grafton Underwood the weekend prior. When she arrived back at home with her mother, he delivered the bad news about having to stay at Cambridge the weekend before her birthday.

She pouted, and her eyes got misty. "But I really wanted you there."

"If there were any way around it," he said, "I would in a heartbeat. I promise I'll be back the weekend after that."

………

As expected, Sunday the first of November was spent in her close company, with Bridget lamenting how it would be two, maybe even three weeks until she saw him again. He was thankful for his ability to rein in his emotions, and he played the part of apologetic long distance boyfriend with gravity and stoicism.

All the while he was bouncing with excitement inside.

His mother, who thought Colin's decision was eminently sensible, suggested that dinner at The Swan would be nice. It was a pub in Kettering with a reputation for good food and a nice atmosphere not unlike the Snooty Fox, which Mark would forever associate with Julie Enderby in an unpleasant way. Even though they were not needed, he phoned and made arrangements in advance for a table, as well as other special surprise accommodations.

He phoned her on the Saturday before her birthday, after the party with her friends, and she sounded so down he regretted ever engaging this bit of subterfuge… making him all the more determined to give her a special night out.

On her birthday proper, his schedule cleared up a little earlier than he'd expected. After a quick stop at his room to don a dress shirt and jacket, then to a florist's, the road between Cambridge and Grafton Underwood seemed to fly by beneath his wheels, so anxious was he to see her face when he showed up unannounced. Once in town he ran to get the wrapped gift from his room, then hastily went to her house and rapped impatiently at the door, a single red rose hidden behind his back.

"Yes, what is it—"

As the door opened, he realised that perhaps he ought to have stuck to his original plan. Bridget answered. With her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open, she was clearly not prepared to see him… but she was also clearly not ready to go anywhere with her parents, let alone with him, with her faded jeans, untidy hair, and baggy sweatshirt.

"Bridget, stop being stubborn and get dressed to go out for dinner this very instant!" It was Pam's voice, high-pitched and angry, and at once he pieced together what was going on: they were trying to get her to dress for dinner, and she was refusing.

"Hi," he said sheepishly. "Surprise."

He brought out his arm from behind his back. Her eyes fixed on the red rose, before turning up to meet his own.

"Happy birthday, love," he added gently.

At that she sprung up and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him so fiercely he thought she might pull him right down to the ground. He did manage to move his arm out of the way so not to crush the flower, enfolding her in his arms in return, lifting her up off of her feet.

It was at that moment that Pam appeared, and he smiled crookedly as his gaze met hers, as he set Bridget's feet down on the floor again. As he looked at her again, he noticed that her expression had changed to one of complete joy.

"I can't believe you came all the way here…" she said, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. She wiped them hastily away, sobbing and chuckling at the same time.

"So are you going to get dressed up now?" piped up her mother from behind her with a smirk.

"Yes, yes, yes, oh my God," she said, finally making the connection that her mother wasn't being pestiferous for no reason. "I will be five minutes. Promise."

She ran up the stairs so quickly he was afraid she was going to trip on her own feet, but she made it to the top and into her room unscathed. He could only laugh to himself.

"Would you care for something to drink, Mark?" Pam asked.

"No thanks," he said.

Pam narrowed her eyes a little. "You know she will be longer than five minutes, don't you?" she asked.

She was probably right. He slipped out of his jacket and asked for whatever juice she might have had.

"I'll put that in water for her," Pam added, holding out her hand for the rose.

When Bridget did reappear fifteen minutes later, he was floored by the transformation she had undergone in so short a time. She was wearing a beautiful blue dress—blue really seemed to be her colour, making her eyes brighter and bluer as a result—a smattering of makeup, and her hair was brushed out and on her shoulders. Her shoes were pumps with moderately high heels and in her hands she held a small clutch purse. Timidly she smiled, clearly waiting for an approving word, which he realised he had as yet failed to give.

"Wow," he said, smiling. It was not verbose, but it had its intended effect, evident in the way her grin broadened.

"Thanks."

They stood there in silence, looking at one another and not saying a word, for many long seconds until Pam cleared her throat and said, "Well, don't suppose showing early to the restaurant will do any harm, will it?"

She saw her shoulders slump. At that moment it occurred to him that she believed he was merely accompanying them to dinner. Mark turned and donned his jacket again, then turned to her. "No, I don't suppose it will. Bridget, where's your coat?"

"On the hook," she said, trying hard to remain cheery; after all, in her eyes he was only improving a night out with her parents.

He pulled the coat down then held it up for her. "Well, shall we?"

Bridget furrowed her brow as she slipped her arms into it. "Dad's not home yet."

"Bridget," said her mother, "your father's not going, and neither am I."

It seemed to take her a moment to fully comprehend what it was she was saying, but when she did, she looked to be in utter disbelief. "Dad said this was okay?"

"It was his idea," said Mark.

She brought her hands to her mouth, but her smile was a mile wide, even wider than before. "Seriously?" she asked.

The door swung open behind Mark and it was Colin Jones himself, and when he saw everyone looking at him he froze like a deer in the headlights. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Bridget's about to leave on her date," said Pam with a smile.

"Ah," he said, grinning and looking at Mark, then back at Bridget again. "Well, poppet, don't you look—Oof!"

He stopped speaking because his daughter had launched herself forward to hug him, just about knocking the wind out of him.

"Thank you so much!" she said, hugging him tight.

He brought his arms around her and patted her back. "Aside from a bump here or there, you've done very well, my dear," said Colin, "showing maturity and responsibility. I thought you deserved this little treat."

"Treat?" she asked, pulling back to look at him. "Does this mean we still have to wait until Christmas break for another date?"

Colin smiled. "Give her an inch, she takes a mile," he said, more to himself than anyone. "Pending tonight's outcome, I'm open to renegotiation."

She giggled, pecking his cheek. "Thank you, Dad. I won't let you down."

"I won't let her let you down," said Mark with a grin. With that, he walked over to the door and opened it for Bridget. "Shall we?"

"Oh, yes," she said, her eyes shining, her cheeks rosy and bright.

As he closed the door, Mark could not help noticing Colin's eyes were glossy, his expression emotional. It didn't surprise him. His only daughter, heading out on her first date. He felt the weight of this responsibility quite acutely.

She grabbed his hand for the short walk to the car. "Where are we going?"

He told her. He had never seen her quite so excited.

"I feel like… I don't know, like we're doing something sneaky," she said.

"We're completely legit, and fully endorsed," he reminded, opening the passenger door for her. "That is quite a beautiful dress."

With ladylike grace she sat down then swung her legs in; he could not help but notice that, in those shoes, her legs were quite shapely. "Thanks," she said, smiling sweetly. He didn't realise he was standing and staring an excessively long amount of time until she added, "You can close the door now."

"Of course," he said, doing so.

As he drove to Kettering, she slid her fingers over the back of his left hand as it rested upon the gear shift. He glanced over to look at her; she was still smiling, though it was now much more subdued and serene than before. The silence, though unexpected from the usually loquacious Bridget, was not in the least bit uncomfortable or uneasy.

As they entered the pub together hand in hand, Mark caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror behind the bar, and he had to admit they made a nice-looking couple, though between the two of them, he felt she was far more attractive. She noticed his amused smile and queried him with an inquisitive expression. He told her.

"Oh, bollocks," she said. "You're a very handsome man."

"You, I think, are biased."

She looked around the place. "Perhaps," she said, "but every woman in the place turned to look at you when we came in."

He thought it was probably nonsense, but in all honesty, he had been so busy looking at both her and her reflection, he could not in good conscience offer a rebuttal that they had not.

They chose to sit at a bench table near the window, one that offered a little more privacy than the standard tables. They sat perusing the menu of offerings when he had the strangest sensation he was being watched. He lifted his eyes to find she was looking at him with a devilish grin.

"I know what I want," she said.

He tried very hard not to think of that statement in any way but a reference to a choice on the menu. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I want a beer."

He looked at her like she'd gone completely around the bend.

"You can't order a beer."

"Ha," she said. "Actually, I can. I looked it up in the library. If you're sixteen, you can order a beer or a cider or the like with a meal."

It was not as if he did not know she could do this, legally speaking; he'd meant he was not going to let her order one. After a moment, however, he realised he really could not stop her. "I can guarantee you will not like beer."

"Why do you say that?" she said, slightly defensively. "What makes you think I haven't already tried it?"

"The answer to both is: You like sweet things. Beer is often referred to as 'bitter' for a reason. Why don't I order a pint and you can taste it?" At her expression, he added, "What?"

"I'm just surprised you didn't say no."

"I wanted to," he said with a grin, "but it's your birthday."

He went to the bar, ordered a Newcastle Brown Ale and brought it back to the table; he wasn't sure how he felt that the barkeep did not ask the age of his companion. He set it down, and she pulled the pint to her lips for a taste. He watched her expression; there was no mistaking the negative reaction as the dark, foamy liquid touched her lips.

"As I suspected," he said with a smirk.

The corner of her mouth pulled to the side in consternation.

"Why don't I place our order and pick something for you?"

He went to the bar to place their order, and decided that a glass of sweet hard cider would be just the thing for Bridget.

The bartender narrowed his eyes as he poured the draught cider. "Were you the one who phoned ahead?"

"Yes," he said. "That's the birthday girl."

He glanced over to where Bridget sat. "Cute," he said. "Everything's ready for you whenever you are."

"After we eat," said Mark. He could not wait to see her expression.

He brought the cider to her and she eyed it warily. "Go ahead, have a taste."

Her initial reaction was not significantly different than when she had the sip of Newcastle Brown, but after a moment, after the initial tang of alcohol wore off, she brought the glass to her lips and took another sip. "You know, this isn't half bad," she said.

"Careful," he said. "That has to last you through dinner."

Their dinner was brought to them quite promptly—his bangers and mash, her Lancashire hotpot—and the food was as delicious as it smelled. He took a long draw off of his ale, contemplating the near-perfect nature of their outing, how lovely it was to take her out on a proper date at last, how wonderful it was to gaze across the table at her. As his contemplation turned and focused on her pale pink lips, he realised that he would definitely have to limit his own ale intake to one pint, and not just because he had to drive home.

He pushed their plates to the edge of the table, where a server came by to sweep them up and away. She had the last of her cider, lifting the glass up to drain the very last drops. When she set it down, she turned her blue eyes to him with a crooked smile, and reached across the table to take his hand in her own. He could tell she was affected by the glass of cider, and was beginning to regret allowing her to order it. Bringing her home tipsy would not curry any additional favour with her father.

"This is wonderful," she said, her voice lilting and dreamy, dropping her chin into her palm as the elbow of her free arm rested on the table.

He could not help but agree.

"Get me another cider?"

From his vantage point he could see that the bartender was trying to get his attention, and once he had it, he mouthed the word "Now?"

Subtly he nodded, then turned his eyes to Bridget.

"Oo, thank you!"

"Thank you?"

"For getting me another cider."

He pursed his lips. "I'm not getting you another cider."

"You nodded."

"I didn't," he said. "However… are you up for a little dessert?"

She giggled. "Do you really need to ask? What've they got?"

"Oh," he said, fumbling a little; he was not actually sure what their usual desserts were, so he made them up, anything to keep her from turning her head. "Ice cream, cheesecake, pie, crumble, pavlova…"

Finally the bartender approached with a lovely little chocolate torte, all sixteen candles miraculously fitting on top of it and ablaze, making his face glow as he walked carefully towards them. Mark was grateful that the bartender was clean-shaven, else the man might have been in danger of setting his beard alight.

As he set the cake down between them, Bridget actually gasped, looked up to the man, then to Mark, her eyes shining with happiness as she smiled. The bartender then backed away, leaving them as alone as they could be with every person in the place watching them.

With huge levels of self-consciousness, he cleared his throat and sang "Happy Birthday" to her, watched her lower lip tremble, watched a tear slide down her cheek. Upon conclusion she blew the candles out, then popped up in her seat, leaned over the table (her chest narrowly avoiding the cake) and pecked a kiss on his lips before sitting down again. The patrons there all applauded.

"Did you make a wish?" he teased.

"Of course I did," she said smugly, plucking the candles out of the cake. "But I can't say or it won't come true."

"Wouldn't dream of asking," he said.

The bartender returned to present her with a knife with which to cut the cake, though she needed only to cut once, dividing it into two perfect servings. He'd also brought two dessert plates and forks, and she served one half to him, the other to herself. It was a seriously delicious confection, but from all appearances she was enjoying it far more than he was. "This is going to sound silly," she said, "but I'd really love a glass of milk. Do you want one too? I could go—"

Before she could do so, he rose and went to the bar, enquiring after some milk, and after staring at Mark for a moment he nodded and said he'd bring a couple of glasses right over.

Milk and cake thus consumed, she sat back against the bench, a few crumbs of chocolate cake decorating the corner of her mouth, reminding him ever so fleetingly of when she was very small. "Everything about this was perfect… and delicious," she said, sighing happily, entwining her fingers over her stomach. "This has turned out to be the best birthday ever. Thank you."

He grinned, remembering her present nestled snugly in his jacket pocket. "It isn't over yet," he said.

She raised one eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

He leaned forward, one hand reaching into his pocket out of sight under the table, the other beckoning her forward with a single finger. She leaned forward as well. His eyes strayed for a moment down the front of her vee collar before meeting her gaze again.

"What?" She was smirking. She'd seen him look.

He reached up to her to brush away the cake with his thumb, causing her to chuckle and blush a fetching shade of pink. Then he pulled up the box that was in his pocket and handed it to her; it wrapped in decorative paper and tied with a ribbon. "Happy birthday."

She looked agape at him as she reached to take the palm-sized box from his hand, but as she tugged at the ribbon, a smile crept over her features. When the paper came away and she saw the box—specifically, the name of the store from which he'd purchased her present—her eyes went round as saucers. "Is this really…" she gasped.

He merely nodded.

"…really from Tiffany's?"

He nodded again.

"Oh my gosh," she said, looking at the box in her hand as if it might start speaking to her.

He laughed. "Are you going to actually open the box to see what it is?"

"I was savouring the moment," she said, looking to him then back down to the box. Finally she slid the top opened, then brought a hand to her mouth as she gasped. "Oh. _Mark_."

Sitting prettily in the box was a necklace; it was silver, as she'd showed preference for on several occasions, a fine chain with a pendant in the shape of a heart. Unlike most heart pendants, however, this one was but an outline, and the chain passed through its centre. She raised the necklace up on two fingers, until the pendant that hung upon it began to swing, hanging from one of the top curves of the heart.

"This is… I don't know what to say. It's beautiful."

"I know you don't wear much in the way of jewellery—" he began.

"I'll never take it off," she declared, holding the chain as if she were about to open the clasp.

"Here," he said, slipping from his bench seat. "Allow me."

He took the necklace from her, opened the clasp, then placed it around her neck in order to fasten it again. He set the closed chain down at the nape of her neck; the weight of the pendant pulled it down to hang just below her collarbone. As he sat again, he gazed upon her and thought again how very lovely she was.

"How does it look on me?" she asked.

"Absolutely gorgeous," he replied.

She offered a shy smile. "Thanks." She reached her hand across the table, an invitation for him to take it in his own. "Now it's the most perfect birthday ever." A pensive look passed over her features. "Too bad it _is_ almost over."

"O ye of little faith. Come on… the next stop awaits."

He paid the bill, then, after helping her back into her coat, escorted her back to the car. Their next stop was not too far from the pub, but the night was already cool, and was only going to get colder.

When the marquee of the theatre came into view, he heard her squeal, particularly because the marquee proclaimed the film being screened was one she had been very interested in seeing. "Mark!" she said, squeezing his hand. "Are you really taking me to see that?"

The film in question was _Dirty Dancing_.

"It is your birthday," he said. He parked the car and turned to her with a smile. "Despite the dubious title, every review I've seen has said good things about it. I figured it wouldn't do to deprive you."

Strolling into the cinema hand in hand, he asked her if she wanted anything from the concession stand. She declined. As they passed by the stand, however, Mark briefly locked eyes with the attendant there; the same woman, he realised, who had scolded him for bringing 'Red' to see _Blind Date_. This time, however, she smiled and winked. He grinned in return, nodding in acknowledgement.

Once in the theatre, once the lights dimmed, although the armrest was between them, he slipped his arm about her shoulders and pulled her as close to him as he could. She beamed a smile up at him as the previews then the feature started.

The film turned out to be better than he was expecting even given the positive reviews. That's not to say his eyes were trained on the screen the entire time. He allowed himself glimpses down to her, the pale blue light from the screen flickering on her face and throat, her new necklace glinting as the figures on the screen moved. She caught him looking on more than one occasion; each time she did, she smiled, turned her face up to him and pecked him on the lips before returning her attention forward.

During the film, due to the way she had to arrange herself in order to cuddle up to him, her own hand came to rest on his knee. Everything about it was borne in innocence, in having nowhere else to put her hand, but he found it to be not just a distraction but a torment, particularly because he had no intention of acting on his desire for her. Although they had been together since just after his birthday at the end of August, he had not even given himself liberty to kiss her as deeply as he had wanted to on more than one occasion, had only allowed sweet (though sometimes lingering) chaste kisses. He was prepared to take it as slowly as he needed to; he did not feel she was ready yet.

At the conclusion of the film, she was teary though smiling as she turned to look at him. "That was even better than I'd hoped," she confessed, wiping under her eyes. "What did you think?"

He nodded. "Very good."

They stood and made for the door, she taking his hand as they walked. "What a great night," she said. "I'm so glad you were able to come home."

As they walked to the car, he slipped his arm around her shoulder once again and planted a kiss in her hair. "Of course I was going to come home," he murmured. "I'm sorry you had to feel sad for not seeing me over the weekend, though."

"I'll forgive you for that," she said as he released her, opening her door for her, though her tone was not as playful as usual. "I suppose it's time to go home now, isn't it?"

He looked to her; she looked about as he expected she would at the conclusion of the evening. "I'm afraid so. I have a drive back to Cambridge ahead of me yet."

The sky was dark and clear, the moon nearly full and bright, as they drove back to Grafton Underwood. Bridget was unusually quiet again, but he reasoned this time it was due to the evening's festivities coming to an end. Music on the radio pleasantly filled the silence, at least until the popular song from the movie they'd just seen came on.

_I had the time of my life…_

At that, Bridget burst into sobs. It was so sudden and unexpected that he pulled off onto the side of the road in order to fully attend to her.

"Bridget!" he said, alarmed, turning in his seat. "What is it?"

The posture she'd taken reminded him so much of that day he'd found her sitting weeping on the park bench, the day he'd seen her outside the stationer's, that he felt his own throat closing with emotion.

"Bridget," he said again, more gently.

"I was sad you didn't come to see me," she managed at last, "but not quite for the reason you think."

"Why, then?" he asked, reaching to take her hand over the console between them.

Meeting his eyes was clearly difficult for her, but she did it. "Going back to uni… I had convinced myself you saw how many pretty, smart girls your own age were around you, that maybe you were going to… I don't know. Stop coming home just for me, and start seeing some other girl." She looked sheepish. "And then you drop everything just to take me out on my birthday and now I feel… like a fool."

He spent many long moments—mere seconds, he was sure—looking at her sweet, pained face, thinking how maybe she too had thought, however briefly, what her parents had thought, that this was something fleeting for him, something that would not have survived through to the Christmas break. Suddenly he was struck with an idea, one that might convince her he had no interest in anyone but her. "Bridget," he said. "Get out of the car."

"What?!" she said.

"I'm not making you walk home, don't worry," he said hastily, then reached and turned up the music. "Get out of the car and leave your door open."

Baffled, she did as he asked. He strode around to where she stood and took her in his arms, then swung her around in a circle. She finally understood, and brought her arms up around him, laughing through her tears as they began to dance, bathed in moonlight, to the same song that had made her cry.

_…and I owe it all to you…_

He looked down at her. "I don't want to see any other girl," he assured, bringing his hand to her face, brushing under her eye, sweeping away the wetness there. "This might be more challenging than taking out someone at school, but… well, you really are worth it to me."

They had, at some point, stopped moving in their dance, and now, their gazes locked, he lowered his head to put his lips upon hers for a kiss. He moved his hand round to cradle the back of her head… and lightly, tentatively, he moved the tip of his tongue along her lips, teasing them, waiting for her to grant permission to kiss her as he'd only dreamt of doing for quite a long time.

He heard her sigh and felt her arms come up around his neck; she then parted her lips to him, sighing softly again as he began to slowly, tenderly deliver the deepest kiss they'd ever had. As his mouth gently claimed hers, as he slid his tongue over her teeth, his arms came up and around her waist, his hands moved up to her back, pulling her close against him.

He had, however, failed to anticipate the rapidity with which she'd learn to reciprocate, and the feel of her delivering such sweet caresses to his own mouth in return, her tongue playing against his own, was quickly igniting a flame of passion he was not willing to act on just yet. He wound down the kiss with several quick, light ones, then pulled back, her cheeks pink even by the light of the moon, her eyes sparkling, her expression one of utter delight.

"Okay," she said softly. "I believe you."

At that he chuckled, pulling him to her for another embrace, his cheek against her temple. He swayed with her as if dancing to a romantic song, though something a little more rock and roll had begun to play. It seemed, though, that now the genie was out of the bottle, Bridget was none too eager to put it back in. She reared her head back again and initiated a kiss of her own, slow and sweet and languorous, her fingers playing along his cheek, tracing over his sideburn.

While he quite enjoyed it, that spark of desire was on the edge of becoming a full-blown conflagration, and he ended it rather more abruptly than he had the first one. "Bridget, love," he said tenderly, brushing her hair back with his hand. "I need to take you home."

She nodded, though her expression told him she was reluctant for him to do so. She took her seat again in the car; as he walked around to the driver's seat, he heard the volume of the radio drop dramatically. He put the car into gear and drove the remainder of the distance into Grafton Underwood.

Once in front of her house, he turned to look at her. "I'm not sure that I can make it back next weekend," he said. "I'll certainly try."

She nodded again, bringing her hand up to hold his cheek. "I hope things change, and you can," she said in a very low tone. "I… miss you already."

He turned his head and placed a kiss in her palm, closing his eyes. "I know how you feel," he replied, then turned his gaze to her again.

She surprised him by leaning forward for yet another kiss as she held his face in her hand, more than quick and chaste, but not quite the level of fieriness they'd achieved as they danced by the roadside. "I love you," she said simply.

It was more than the declaration of a girl who'd had a crush on him as long as she could remember, and it touched him very deeply. "Oh, Bridget," he said. "I love you too."

She smiled, pecked him one last time on the mouth, then left the car for the house.

The night had been an unqualified success. The drive back to Cambridge was the longest of his life.

* * *

NB:

Drinking age in England: "16 and over may purchase beer, porter, cider, or perry with a meal in an eating area on licensed premises (In Scotland wine also) Licensing Act of 1964". [sic]


	10. Chapter 9

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~4,853.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 9_

The rest of the week was busier than he could have ever imagined, but he was determined to have no unfinished business for the weekend. Despite his insistence that he might not be able to travel back to Grafton Underwood, he knew that he could not stay away, especially not after reading the letter he'd received from her a few days after her birthday.

_Mark,m_

_It's about three minutes since I left you in the car, but I need to get this down so it can go in the morning post. I don't feel that I thanked you enough tonight. You (thanks to the cooperation of my parents) made this birthday better than my wildest dreams. So… thank you, thank you, thank you, x 1 million. I especially loved our dance, the dance we never got to finish from before. I'm afraid, though, that it may have had an unintended side effect, because now that we've had that kiss, I can't really stop thinking about it. My lips are still tingling, even now._

He wondered if she realised he felt quite the same way.

_It's not like I thought we never would. I knew you would never push it with me, thinking I'm not ready or something, but I had no idea how wonderful kissing like that was. Oh. Better than I ever expected. Even though the thought of someone's tongue in your mouth is kind of off-putting…. You made it absolutely amazing._

At this he chuckled under his breath. He also reminded himself that while he was flattered, she certainly had no basis for comparison.

_I had to fake being asleep for a bit. Now it's later than I should be up. I'm going to pay for it when I walk around like a zombie tomorrow at school, but I can't sleep anyway. I can only think of you, and of those wonderful kisses._

_When will I see you again? I miss you more than words can say. I know it's a lot to ask of you to come back home so frequently, but it helps a little knowing there's a finish line, and that you'll be there when I reach it. _

_Love and kisses,_  
_B._

He'd folded the letter and for the time being put it someplace for safe keeping until he could bring it to his room at his parents'; he kept it somewhere Daniel was unlikely ever to look: in the centre of a King James Bible he kept amongst his books for reference.

………

In his wisdom, Colin Jones decided after that first successful date that they could continue to go out on their own rather than wait until break, but with some restrictions, such as not staying out past midnight. He usually took her to supper and to the cinema, as their options were limited and it was winter, and never once did he bring her home past her curfew. Every time he returned to Cambridge, Daniel unleashed an inquisition on him about whether or not he'd slept with her yet. He always adamantly said no.

The scant almost-month between her birthday and the start of Christmas break went relatively quickly, and before he knew it he was home again, spending as much time as he could with her. He did his work when she was in school, and when she began her Christmas break, they spent most days together, usually at his house or at hers. He also took her ice skating; she was not very good and pulled him down quite frequently, but it was loads of fun, and the cocoa afterwards was warm and cosy. Her calves were quite sore the next day, and he was sure that she had as many bruises as he did. As they sat upon the sofa at his parents' house, she bent over to rub her sore muscle. He immediately insisted that she swing around and raise her leg; he took her calf into his hands, massaging it through the denim of her jeans. She rested back on the arm of the sofa, closing her eyes and smiling, making little sounds of happiness, obviously blissful at the feel of his fingers and palms digging into the soreness there. He took the other one and did the same, but was careful not to look at her for this one. It was all too easy to imagine her behaviour in a slightly more intimate setting.

They also walked the short distance between her house and the candy shop to pick out some Christmas candies, and when the entire countryside was blanketed with snow, she insisted on making snowmen in his front garden—"Since it's so much bloody bigger than ours" was her justification—which evolved into a snowball fight that involved the entire garden, front and back. She might have been smaller, but she was quick, and she ended up winning. Of course, he won too, in that at the conclusion in the back garden she gifted him with a lovely kiss, her nose cold against his cheek, their breath clouding around them as they had a long and proper snog. He was thankful his parents were not home that day.

They even took the train early one morning into London in order to do some Christmas shopping. He didn't want to drive because it only meant he'd have to find somewhere to park. Prior to shopping, however, he wanted to take her to see London's Inns of Court, specifically, to the Middle Temple, of which he wanted to be a member after being called to the Bar. "That's where I hope to work someday," he said proudly as they stood before it.

She looked a little melancholy. "That's soon, isn't it?" she said.

"Well, not that soon—I have a year and a half of Cambridge left, then Bar Vocational, then, I hope, pupillage. You'll probably be halfway done with uni yourself when all is said and done."

"I guess that _is_ a long way away," she said. After a few moments of contemplative silence, she added, "It'll be an age before you and I get to stay in one place together longer than a few weeks at a time."

"As I heard once in a song," he said, placing arms around her, "nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight."

She smiled, and it was genuine. "That's very true, isn't it?"

It was true, and they both seemed to acknowledge it in their silence, punctuated at the end with a kiss. They had not had the trials or tribulations of Romeo and Juliet, their families had a much better relationship than the Capulets and the Montagues, but it had been a struggle all the same to get to the place they were now.

Thus invigorated and inspired, they then headed to a sprawling Christmas market, found quite a few good gifts and had some food from one of the booths there. After begging him relentlessly, he bought her a mulled wine to keep warm. After a second's thought he ordered one for himself too.

Still pleasantly warmed by the wine, they followed up shopping with a stroll through the streets of the West End to admire all the Christmas lights. It was not full dark, yet dark enough that residents and tourists alike were out to admire the displays.

On the train ride back, she fell asleep, clearly knackered by the trekking they had done all over town. He could only pull her to rest on his shoulder, his arm around her, and forced himself to stay awake despite how tired he felt. He was determined not to miss their station and to get her home on time.

………

"Aren't you going to ask about your phone message?"

Mark looked at Daniel blankly. The latter was casually sprawled on one of the sofas in their common living area. "What?"

"Your phone message. About your weekend travel plans."

"My weekend—"

He stopped short as a horror began to wash over him. It was three weeks until the end of the Lent term in the middle of March, and with his workload she had begrudgingly agreed with him that he could not drive back all three weekends, but only this upcoming one.

"You didn't," Mark said gravely.

"It's not like I rung up your childfriend, Mark. She phoned here."

"What did you say to her?" Mark demanded.

Daniel sat up, gave him an affronted look. "I'm hurt that you didn't trust me to behave myself. And what about what she said to tell you?"

"I _don't _trust you to behave yourself."

Defeated, Daniel sighed. "You're right. I wanted to, but she sounded so sweet and sad I didn't have the heart."

"Sad about what?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Daniel said. "You can't go home this weekend, at least not to see her. She and her parents are off to see her suddenly sick granny or something. They were leaving immediately."

Mark stared at Daniel. "Stop calling her that."

"What?"

"'Childfriend'."

"Well, I don't know her name, so what else can I call her?"

Mark was thankful she had not given her name to him. "She's a proper girlfriend," Mark said. "You can call her that."

"I disagree," said Daniel. "A proper girlfriend is one with whom you actually have sex."

Mark let out a slow, frustrated breath, and rather than prolong this senseless conversation, he went to the telephone on the off-chance they had not actually left yet. It rang ten times before Mark had to accept that they were truly not at home.

He then rang up his mother on the chance he had any additional information regarding how grave a state her granny was in.

"It's nothing too serious, from what Pam tells me, just a cold," assured Elaine. "But she lives on her own and it's hard for her to care for herself. They haven't been to visit for a while and Pam was feeling a bit guilty." After a beat she added, "I'm sure Bridget will miss seeing you this weekend."

"Yeah," he said in return. "Particularly as I'm not going to be able to come home the next two weekends. I've already made plans to work on projects and do study groups, and I won't be able to rearrange them on such short notice."

"I'm sorry, son," said Elaine. "But after that you'll be on break."

"Yes," he said, thinking he had not looked forward more to a break between terms in a very long time.

………

That Mark was able to keep up this hectic schedule of his studies as well as a girlfriend an hour away and still manage to score at the top of his class was no small feat. Entering the summer break, during which he had to firm up his future plans, he at least had his choice of schools to apply for the Bar Vocational. Despite the fact that it was going to increase his commute time back home to see Bridget, he chose the City University of London.

It did not appear, however, that Bridget would have such a luxury. Her grades were good, but a consistently poor grade at French meant she would have fewer choices in which schools she could apply to. His heart sank when he learned that while she was applying to several schools in England, she was also considering Wales.

"It's not like I want to be that far away," she said with great sadness. "I just have to consider who would be likely to accept me. Plus, you know, being Welsh and all…."

Of course, attending university was never not an option for her. He would not hear of her skipping her education just for his sake. If she had to be in Wales and he in London, they would find a way to make it work. He hoped in particular that their term breaks would coincide.

"If you'd only put in a little extra effort in your French class," he said offhandedly in reply, thinking of the additional options that might have been open to her but for those poor grades.

"What?" she said sharply.

"Well, with a better grade you could have—"

"I could have what? Gone to Cambridge too?" she asked, her temper rising a little.

"Well, yes," he said frankly. "You're not stupid, Bridget, and I know when you put your mind to it, you can accomplish whatever you want. If you'd only applied yourself in this case…"

From her expression he could tell he had tread onto very thin ice. He trailed off.

"No," she said, rising to her feet from her parents' sofa. "Please, go on. Tell me what a failure I turned out to be while delivering backhanded compliments."

"Bridget, please," he said. "I'm only thinking seriously about your future… as maybe you should have been doing all along." As he said it, he regretted it. The echo of silence that followed was painful.

"Right," she said at last. "So I'm not serious about my future. Right." She stalked over to the door and flung it open.

"Bridget, come back here."

"I'm going out, and when I come back, I'd prefer you were not here."

She stalked out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

This abrupt, loud sound caught Pam's attention, and she came out from the kitchen. "What's going on?"

"I'm afraid I stepped in it with Bridget," he said. "We were talking about her options for university."

Pam looked morose. "She's heartbroken, you know, that she can't choose somewhere closer to where you'll be. Can't tell you how many nights she's cried her eyes out, beating herself up for not trying harder in French class."

He felt his head bob in a nod, but inwardly he felt like a heel. He should have considered she'd already been agonising over this long before she'd mentioned it to him. He rose to his feet. "I'd better go and find her."

Pam nodded. "She's probably out in the back garden. On the swing."

He should have guessed. "Thanks."

He found her just as Pam had suggested, sitting on the two-person bench swing that hung from the tree there, her hand over her eyes, leaning on the armrest, as she pushed herself back and forth with her toes. In that instant she reminded him of a little girl again, running off to the swing when she was feeling sad.

"Go away," she said, not looking up.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I never meant to suggest you were a failure, or anything of the kind." He sat beside her on the swing, making it swerve for a moment until it found its balance again. "It was boorish of me to suggest you don't take your future seriously."

"Bloody right it was," she said, turning to look at him at last. "Just because everything's so damn easy for you."

"There's where you're wrong," he said gently. "Nothing about this has been easy for me. I refuse to give anything less than my best for university. I also refuse to let you suffer for it. To let what we have together suffer."

He saw her lower lip begin to tremble, saw her drop her eyes to look down. He reached out, put his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her close. She rested her hand on his chest, laid her head on his shoulder, as he pushed the swing back and forth.

"Sorry too," she said at last.

"Don't apologise," he said. "There's no need." He listened for a moment to the leaves rustling in the breeze. "There may be setbacks and obstacles, but someday, love, we'll be together for more than just a few weeks at a time."

She laughed lightly at the reference to her own past words, slipping her hand to his waist, grasping gently.

"You know what?" she asked after some moments in this peaceful silence. "I think this might have been our first fight."

He chuckled. "I think you're right," he said. "Well, you know what you're supposed to do after a fight." He looked down to her as she looked up to him with a smile, then launched herself up and into a kiss. Though private and shaded with trees, it was the boldest kiss she'd allowed in a place where her mother might observe, which surprised him a little. He brought his hand over to embrace her, surprised when his hand touched bare skin; her shirt had ridden up.

His gasping and pulling away from the kiss left her looking a little startled. "Mark?"

"Sorry," he said, tugging her shirt down, then smoothing over the fabric with the flat of his hand.

As she sat up properly, she scrutinised him, her eyes searching his face, her expression unexpectedly sad. "It must be difficult," she said at last.

"What?"

She looked away into the blue sky, taking her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. "I do know what boys think about. A _lot_." She turned her eyes to him once more. He caught her meaning, though he did not know precisely what to say in response.

"Do you think," he began, "that I somehow resent… having to restrain myself?"

She looked away bashfully. "Do you have to restrain yourself?"

He thought of all the kisses that had ended long before he had truly wanted them to. "I think you know the answer to that already."

"Is it because my mum or dad, or your mum or dad, could happen upon us," she asked tentatively, "or because you think I don't want you to go further?"

This was veering into a very sensitive discussion area, but he realised in a way that it was somewhat overdue. After all, in another month or so, they would be celebrating a year together. "A little of the first," he said at last, "but mostly… I don't want to rush you into anything you aren't ready for."

She smiled at him, reached out for his hand and squeezed it; it occurred to him how much she had truly matured in the time since she had become his girlfriend. "Why don't you test the bounds," she said quietly, "and let me decide when you've gone too far?"

He thought about possible scenarios in which he let the restraint he had been practising lessen somewhat, getting very hot and heavy with her, only to be told to stop; he of course would, but envisioned many a cold shower in his future. She took advantage of his silence, of his slightly parted lips, by reaching for him and resuming their kiss.

He turned in his seat and pressed her up against the back of the bench swing, kissing her more voraciously, more desperately than he ever had, pressing his chest against hers, feeling her chest rise and fall beneath him, feeling and hearing her gasping. His hand rested upon her shoulder, but before he had further opportunity to try to test the bounds, as she put it, her mother started calling her name to come help prepare supper. He pulled away to see her cheeks flushed, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted as she heaved for air. He watched as her brows furrowed, as she sighed in a sort of disgust.

"Bloody mum," she said, her frustration evident, "and her bloody potatoes."

"Go on in," he said, running his hand over his face. "I'll call you later."

She nodded.

Ordinarily he would have accompanied her in, said goodbye to her mother before leaving, but given the circumstances, he needed time to compose himself. In letting his restraint go in his kiss with her, certain other restraints had also fallen to the wayside. He took deep, even breaths, then, when he was certain he had calmed down sufficiently, he wandered around the house and for his car.

………

Bridget was free to come out after dinner, so he was prompt in popping into his car to pick her up. He was grateful for her parents' trust in him, though felt guilty because what he hoped most for that evening was that he could get her alone and resume that kiss. He knew, though, that it would not end in sex. He was not ready to take her there, and he was convinced she was even less ready to go there.

"Hi," she said, beaming a smile at him.

"Hello," he said.

"What do you want to do?" she asked; for a moment he believed it was an innocent question, until he saw the glint in her eye.

"We could take a drive to Kettering," he said. "Or just, you know, out to the country. It's a fine summer night."

That smile returned. "Very fine idea."

With the radio on, his hand in hers, he headed out towards Kettering; it was summer, and though it was after dinner, it was barely twilight. He came to a halt at about the same place he'd stopped and danced with her, a stretch of the road overlooking a green field, a copse of shade trees a little ways away. "What do you say to here?"

"Here is perfect."

He walked toward the trees with her, their hands linked again. The fresh air, the breeze, the bright, cloudless sky hinting towards pinks and purples of sunset, was gorgeous in totality; here really was perfect.

"Shall we stop here?" she asked, stopping to lean against a tree.

He did not answer her with words; he merely strolled up to her and dove upon her with a kiss. Her hands quickly came up into his hair, playing on his shoulders. As he pressed up against her, her feet between his, he moved his kiss to play along her jawline, then to her earlobe and neck. She arched up into him, making a lovely sound of pleasure.

His hands swept up against her hips—she still wore the denim shorts she'd been wearing earlier—then to her waist, then one went up and over her breast. As he pressed his hand into her, she gasped, searching for his mouth to assail him with a new wave of kisses.

Even through the cloth of her jersey and her bra, she was soft and yielding to his touch. His thumb teased the already-hard nipple through the fabric. Desperately she said his name. He ceased all motion.

"Are you okay?" he asked throatily. "It's not too much?"

"No, it's fine; oh God, more than fine," she burbled. "Please. You don't have to stop."

"Are you sure?"

"Mark," she said insistently.

He would have to take her at her word.

His other hand at her waist teased the edge of her shirt before venturing beneath to touch her skin. This elicited another soft sound, almost a moan. Instead of rising up beneath her shirt, though, his hand then drifted down and over her bottom, cupping then squeezing her gently.

"Mark," she said.

"My darling Bridget," he whispered into her ear before nipping at the lobe then delivering open-mouthed kisses upon her neck again.

"This isn't… too much for you?" Her voice had taken a slightly nervous tenor. He stopped, then stood back to look at her.

"Too much?"

"I can feel… well…" She glanced down momentarily as she blushed.

He was sure he was blushing an equal shade of crimson; he had never intended on making her uncomfortable in this way. Immediately but gracefully he stopped, standing upright, reverently combing her hair back from her face. "Perhaps it is a little too much," he said gently; not for him so much as her, but he was all right in allowing her to believe he needed to stop. "You're just so—"

"Don't you dare say 'innocent'," she said crossly.

He laughed lightly. "I was going to say 'beautiful'," he said. "I may have gotten ahead of myself."

She was still breathing unsteadily. "You're not angry?"

"Why would I be angry at you?" he asked.

"For having to stop," she said.

"Bridget," he said, placing one hand on either side of her face. "Some reactions cannot be helped, especially those in response to kissing someone you really love. But there are times when they cannot be acted upon, and that's okay."

She looked regretful. "I should have never done this to you."

"Oh, love," he said. "I knew exactly what I was getting into when I brought you out here tonight. I never _expected_ anything. Hoped for a nice snog, maybe, but…"

His words had the effect he hoped they would, and she chuckled. "It just felt, um, kind of weird," she admitted. "That must be weird."

"What?"

"Having a body part with a mind of its own."

At that he laughed out loud, pulled her into his arms for an embrace. He turned so that he was leaning against the tree, and she against him, at least mostly.

"You're not laughing at me, are you?" she asked.

"Never, Bridget," he said. "I just never really thought of it in that way before."

She was quiet again; they watched the sun dip down closer to the horizon. He sat at the base of the tree. She sat beside him, leaning into him, her hand on his chest again.

"Can I ask a question?"

He kissed her on the temple. "Any time."

"Has that happened often? When kissing me?"

"Yes," he admitted. "Sometimes when thinking of kissing you."

She was quiet. "That must be… inconvenient."

He chuckled. "It's better than when it happens uncontrollably for no reason."

She sat bolt upright. "God. Does that really happen?"

He laughed again. "Don't worry. That's reserved for the beginning of puberty. It hasn't happened to me in many a year."

"Ugh," she said, settling back in. "I thought breasts and a monthly—well. I thought breasts were bad." He watched her turned bright pink again.

"Not bad in the least," he said. She chuckled.

He was content to sit there with her until he realised his car might be reported as abandoned or ticketed for being parked there for so long. "Think it's time to go," he murmured.

"You're probably right," she said. "I'm getting a little cold."

He stood then helped her to her feet, walking with her hand in his back to the vehicle, which apparently had not been ticketed or towed off, much to his relief.

"Mark," she said as they headed back to Grafton Underwood. "I don't like to think I'm teasing you."

"You aren't teasing me by simply being who you are," he said, then looked over to her. "Do you think snogging with you like we just did is making me suffer in some way?"

"Well," she said, then shyly added, "maybe a little."

"I don't want you to think that way at all," he said, perhaps a little more sternly than he intended. He added, his tone a little gentler, "As long as you're enjoying it too, as long as you are not uncomfortable in some way, I am content with whatever we share together."

She went quiet again, taking his hand in hers. They were nearly to her house again when she said, "I did."

"You did what?"

"Enjoy it."

He smiled, squeezing her hand. "I'm glad."

As he stopped the car, she leaned forward to kiss him. "Call me in the morning?"

"Of course."

She smiled, pecked another kiss, then left his car.

On the way back to his own house, he fell into his own thoughts. What he didn't tell her was that it did in a sense make him suffer; it was just a small price he was willing to pay for her comfort.

………

Her tradition for his birthday went unchanged; she made him a card and bought him a present: a pretty little framed photo of the two of them at a summer picnic. It was the best gift he received that year. He actually looked forward to proving to Daniel that she was nowhere near being a child.

For their first anniversary as a couple, he took her out for dinner and dancing. The announcement of same during the drive to the restaurant elicited an excited response from her, bouncing in her seat and clutching his hand very tightly.

He teasingly allowed her a cider with their meal, but it was the dancing he was really looking forward to; he swept her up from her seat for the first slow song they played and turned her around the floor. He was impressed by how quickly she learned to follow his lead. As they spun around the dance floor, the sight of her smiling face looking up at him, her long golden hair swept up off of her neck, silver heart necklace nestled between her collarbones, his hands around her waist, was not one he would soon forget.

"I had a wonderful night, but I have to be honest," she said on the way home. Her tone was light and playful, so he was not worried as she continued. "I love dancing with you alone more."

* * *

NB:

Bar vocational is now called Bar Professional Training Course.

The song to which Mark is referring is "Lovers in a Dangerous Time" by Bruce Cockburn, originally released on 1984's _Stealing Fire_—and later remade with much success by The Barenaked Ladies.


	11. Chapter 10

Tabula Rasa

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,615.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 10_

It was a routine presentation to prospective university students from the greater London area, those who had signed up to come and hear current Cambridge students speak on what it was like to read law, what sorts of things to expect, and what would be expected of them. Mark had volunteered to be on the committee, because he loved making younger people excited about the potential of the legal field.

The presentation was in the morning, and being one of the more eloquent public speakers, he had offered to speak on behalf of the more activist side of the profession. He had spent hours composing his speech, and looked forward to delivering it to what he hoped would be an eager crowd. Finally it was his time to take the stage. He stood at the podium, cleared his throat, and scanned his eyes over the sea of fresh young faces.

What he wasn't counting on was that one of the faces in the crowd would be a familiar one. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no; it was truly Bridget. She grinned and waved and mouthed the word "Surprise!"

It was a huge surprise, indeed. In fact, he was so dumbfounded he could not speak a word. Someone behind him hissed his name. He snapped out of it, cleared his throat again, and looked down to the index cards in his hand. He was never so grateful to have them there.

He got through the presentation without further issue, then took his seat in order for the family law representative to begin his speech. He didn't hear a word of it. His eyes went to where she was sitting and never left for the remainder of the presentation.

It was more than just her very presence at Cambridge that surprised him. Two days previous, Wednesday, it had been her birthday; he had once again intended on driving home to see her to take her out, but that morning, she had phoned him to tell him not to come. He'd had a hard time determining it was her; she'd had a cold _par excellence_. She had apologised profusely, but he'd told her not to worry, and that he would ring her on Friday to see how she was doing to see whether or not she was up for a visit. He had intended on phoning her after the presentation.

Clearly she was improved.

As the students dispersed, he helped to clear off the stage then left the auditorium himself. She was waiting for him in the lobby.

"Hi!" she said with a bright smile.

"Bridget, what on earth are you doing here?"

"Told a little white lie and said I was interested in becoming a lawyer so I could go on this school outing," she said smugly. "They didn't need to know I was really just interested in seeing a future lawyer."

He chuckled to himself, then looked around. "Where's your group?"

"Went off for lunch." Her smile faded as she stepped closer to him. "Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Oh, Bridget, of course I am," he said, then realised belatedly he had not even hugged her. "You are all better, aren't you?"

She nodded. "I feel fine." She reached out and he took her into his arms.

"Happy belated birthday," he said, kissing the top of her head. "I have a present for you."

"I don't know how you'll top last year's," she said as she stepped back. "Take me to see your room?"

He was never so glad that Daniel was off-campus through next week, working on the job with a publishing house in London. He wanted to keep them as far apart from each other as possible. "Sure. I can get your gift, too."

"Great."

She seemed pleased to see his room and he for one was glad that it was tidy, something that was much easier to accomplish without Daniel around. "It'll be so nice to picture you here in your suite when I'm talking to you, or if I'm writing to you." She looked around. "Which room is yours?"

"That one," he said.

She peeked in. "I should have guessed," she said with a grin. "A ton of books all over and everything in tremendous order. Where's your roommate… Daniel, wasn't it?"

He went over to Daniel's door to pull it closed. He hadn't even made his bed, and Mark was sure he caught a glimpse of a pizza box on the floor. "He's out of town."

"Mm, I would have liked to have met him."

"Mark, are you in there?" It was a voice from the hallway, one of his co-committee chairs, Michael.

"Yes," he called back.

"We have a problem."

"Be right there." He sighed. "Trust me, Daniel's not a man you want to meet," he said. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

She smiled pleasantly, then nodded. He left and closed the door behind him.

"What's the problem?" he said, meeting Michael at the threshold of his suite.

"The planning notebook's gone missing."

"What? It's on the podium. I told you that."

"It's not," said Michael. "Believe me, I looked before coming to find you."

"Unless someone moved it…"

They decided to go back to the auditorium and found the notebook was indeed on the podium, but it had been hidden from view at the back of one of the lower shelves. "Sorry," said Michael. "I should have looked more carefully."

"That's all right. That wasn't where I left it."

"Thanks for coming, and sorry to bother you. Was that your girlfriend I saw you with?"

He smiled. "Yes."

"Cute," he said, then smirked. "Was… was she here with the visiting students?"

He had clearly been talking to Daniel. "I'll see you later."

He went promptly back to his suite to find that it was apparently empty. He was confused. "Bridget?"

"In here."

He closed the door behind himself, flipped the lock out of habit, then went into his room to find—

All he could see was her head and bare shoulders peeking out from the top of the sheets. She was resting back on the pillow, her hair pulled off to one side, and she was smiling.

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you," she said. She flipped back the corner of the sheet, revealing a little bit more of her bare shoulder.

He felt a little overwhelmed and conflicted. The sight of her, the thought of her naked in his bed made his heart race a little, but he was not prepared for this right now; he had a class in three hours, and she—

"Bridget, come on," he said, sitting by her side on the bed. "This is not a game. You have a bus or a train or something to catch back to Grafton Underwood."

"I'll ride back with you later," she said. Plaintively she added, "Mark, I'm ready—really, truly ready—but we have absolutely no privacy at my house or yours." With this proclamation she pushed the covers aside completely, revealing a very bare upper body.

For a moment, he couldn't breathe or think. He only sat upon the edge of the bed, next to where she lay, his eyes fixed on her gorgeous, perfect bosoms.

"Bridget," he said again, his voice wavering. He hadn't even gotten his hand up her shirt yet, and she thought she was ready for this?

She pushed herself up to her knees to crawl then kneel beside him where he sat; the entirety of her body—as beautiful as he might have imagined it to be—was flushed pink. He became immediately aware she had no pants on, either. He felt like his brain was about to short-circuit.

"Yes," she said.

He raised his hand to brush his fingers along her bare hip, then drew his brows together, concern replacing lust in an instant. "Bridget, you're hot."

Her blush deepened. "Thanks."

He realised she thought he meant something else altogether. "No; you're burning with a fever."

"I'm not. I'm fine," she protested. She put her arm around his shoulders and leaned into him, brushing her lips on his cheek. Everywhere her body met his felt hot to the touch.

"You're not fine," he replied; a man of weaker will would have likely succumbed. He leaned away and turned to her, making sure to keep his eyes level with hers and not waver downward. "You're burning up."

"Mark," she said with a pout. She then shivered.

"Come on, under the sheets with you."

"You're no fun," she said, but did as told. "Crikey, it's bloody freezing in here."

The memory of her very hard nipples came to the forefront of his mind's eye. At that moment it was not particularly welcomed. "It's not that cold," he said, but he realised the heat was usually lowered during the day when they weren't there, and he was used to it.

"Okay," she said. "_I'm_ bloody freezing."

"Let me get you a fever reducer."

He went to the loo and pulled a couple of Paracetamol out of the bottle, then got her a glass or water with which to take them. He was back at her side in no time at all. "Bridget, here. Take these."

She had become very fuzzy-headed in the time between her attempt at seduction and now. Unsteadily, she took the pills and put them in her mouth; he helped her take a great swallow of water. "There you are. Now lie down."

She did so and he covered her to her shoulders.

The first thing he did was call Michael to tell him he might not be able to make it to class, that Bridget was ill and to please find the school contingent to let them know. He next called Pam Jones to let her know that Bridget had fallen ill during her trip, and he was tending to her fever. "I'll have her home tonight or tomorrow, I promise."

There was a pause before Pam spoke. "I'm sure she is in good hands. Now, if she gets too warm, put her in a cool bath. You can't go wrong with chicken broth—homemade is best but I don't suppose you have a way to make it there. Lemon tea with honey, oh, you must give her that. And—"

Just as Pam was starting this litany of advice, he heard Bridget calling for him.

"Mrs Jones. Pam. I really must go."

After he hung up, he went to see her and observed that her teeth were literally chattering.

"I'm really, really cold."

Considering she was under a down comforter, a blanket, and thick cotton sheets, he knew this must be a result of the fever. "Hold on." He stood and went to his bureau, found a pair of flannel pyjamas. He pulled out the top, which he realised would likely come clear down to her knees. He brought it back to her. "Bridget, I know you're cold, but if you put this on, it'll help."

He helped her into the flannel top, then tucked her back into bed. "Is that better?" he asked.

"A little." She turned her eyes to him. They looked mournful. "I'm sorry."

"That's all right," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't notice sooner that you had a fever."

"That's what you get for not kissing me," she teased weakly.

He bent over and kissed her cheek. "Though I'm just as glad not to get what you have." He brushed her hair back from her cheek.

"Mark, I'm still cold. Can you… come and lie under the covers with me? I mean, do you have time?"

"Of course. I always have time for you," he said, slipping out of his shoes, taking off his trousers. She laughed half-heartedly. "What's so funny?"

"Never thought the first time I slept with you would be like this."

"Not the first. Remember the picnic with your runaway Jane Austen dress?" He heard her chuckle as he slipped in behind her, pulling himself to spoon with her. "Believe me, darling," he said quietly, "this will not be the last."

With his arm around her, her hair fragrant in his nose, her warmth against him, he felt more content than he had in ages. Before long, he could feel her breathing fall into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. He did not consider himself tired when he laid down beside her, but within very short order, he was fast asleep.

………

After dozing a little while beside her, he roused with the intention of making her those things her mother had suggested, like lemon tea with honey, then procuring dinner for the both of them, preferably some chicken soup from the commissary, chock full of carrots, potatoes, noodles and onions. He saw her clothes lying in a pile on the floor on the far side of the bed, and with a little smile he picked each thing up, one at a time, and carefully folded it in turn.

He woke her and took her temperature (still elevated), then proceeded to make tea then get dinner. When it was time for more fever reducer he woke her again and made her otherwise drink lots of water; she promptly fell back to sleep.

He did a little reading until it was time for the last dose of Paracetamol for the evening, then showered, dressed in pyjama bottoms and a tank, then returned to the bed to go to sleep. Immediately upon crawling in beside her, she turned over and curled up to him for warmth.

He was up at his usual early hour, preparing tea, waiting for the electric kettle to boil when he hear the suite door open. Alarmed, he switched it off and raced out of the kitchen—and saw Daniel standing, wide-eyed and grinning, in front of Mark's own open bedroom door.

"You sly dog, waiting for me to get out of town! Is that her? Your chi—"

"Don't say it," Mark interrupted, rushing into the bedroom before Daniel could. He was immediately horrified to see that she had turned over and pushed the duvet away; her bare bottom was rather on display. He covered her, which woke her. She raised her head, and when she noticed that she had an audience, she shrieked and buried herself under the covers.

"Very nice," said Daniel. "Very nice indeed."

Protectively he stroked where he knew her head to be, then barked, "What are you even doing back? Get out of here. Get out of my room."

"Early release," he said. "Glad for it too. Hel_lo_, my lovely." This last comment was obviously directed towards Bridget.

"Daniel, get out of here."

Daniel must have known by now that Mark was not to be trifled with, probably from a look that could melt steel, because he sighed a surrender and said, "Fine."

"Close the door."

He rolled his eyes as he backed through the doorway, pulling it closed. "Bloody prude."

"Is he gone?" she asked feebly.

"He's gone."

She emerged from under the duvet. "Oh, God, Mark, I'm so embarrassed."

"Pay him no mind." He ran his hand over her hair. "How are you feeling?"

"Loads better. All that TLC really helped." Her smile was sweet.

"I was about to make you some tea," he said. "And kick Daniel out of the suite until we're gone."

"I'd appreciate it," she said in a small voice. "I don't think I could look him in the eye right now."

"I know he wouldn't be able to look you in the eye," he said. "Rather a place a bit further south."

She giggled lightly. "How did you ever become friends with him?"

"Aside from his lecherous ways with women," Mark said, "he's a good friend, smart and razor-sharp wit. In fact, if not for his little flaw, I believe you and he would get along famously."

She grinned. "I could probably handle him."

"You probably could," he said, "but there is no way am I letting him anywhere near you." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek; she did feel much cooler, as if the fever had broken. "Let me go explain to him he did not walk in on a 'morning after'."

She smirked impishly. "Would it be so bad to let him think he had?"

He laughed, kissed her again, then left his room.

As much as would have loved to let Daniel believe they'd spent the night together doing anything but sleeping, he found he could not let the white lie stand, particularly as Daniel immediately asked upon Mark's entry into the kitchen, "So how was it?"

"She came down with a fever," Mark said.

"Ah, so that's what you were doing," said Daniel with a smirk. "Playing doctor."

"Not in the sense you're thinking. I'm serious. She was here with her school—"

Daniel burst out with a laugh.

"—and came down with a fever."

"Ahh," Daniel said with great exaggeration. "That explains the bare arse… and here you implied she was too old for a rectal thermometer."

Daniel really could be the crudest bastard at times. "I don't think this is any of your business."

"So you did not have sex."

His instinct was to offer an immediate and adamant denial, but something about what Bridget had said made him hesitate before saying, "No."

Daniel winked. "Right."

"Go on," said Mark, striving to sound slightly pleading without begging. It was a delicate balance with Daniel, who, if he got the slightest whiff that he was being forced out, would be less willing to go. "Leave us be for a little while. We'll be on the road to Grafton Underwood by two."

"Fine," he said. "Don't suppose I can really call her 'childfriend' anymore, can I?" He swiped an apple up off of the bowl on the counter and took a bite. He chewed, looking quite thoughtful, then swallowed and said, "I saw that arse." He whistled. "Well done, Darce. Is her face just as cute?"

"Will you just go so I can proceed with breakfast?"

"I understand," said Daniel with a wink, "doctor has to make his rounds."

Before Mark could rebut him, Daniel left, shutting the door behind him.

"Mark?"

It was Bridget's voice calling from within the bedroom. He went to her directly. She was sitting in bed, the duvet up and over her lap, looking adorable and dishevelled. However, she also looked slightly annoyed. "You might have denied that."

He was thoroughly confused. "I thought you said it was okay to let him think we—"

"Not about that," she said, rolling her eyes. "About the… thermometer."

He sat down, chuckling. "I'm sorry," he said. "He was only kidding."

"And why did he refer to me as a 'childfriend'?" She seemed genuinely hurt by that.

"Because he's a prat who likes to tease me about your age." He clasped her hand. "I didn't want to get into it with him because I thought it was far more important to get rid of him so that I could make you breakfast. How are you feeling?"

She looked somewhat mollified. "A little better."

He placed his hand on her face. "I think your fever's broken."

"That's good."

"That's great." He leaned down, raised her face to his, and kissed her properly on the lips. "Very great." When he sat back, he noticed she was smiling at last.

………

With so much attention focused on whether or not the deed had been done, they had both gone a little stiff and awkward as they ate the tea and toast he made for them. Without further ado they struck out for Grafton Underwood; all uneasiness dissipated during the course of that drive. When he told her what Daniel had said, beneath the blush, she actually looked a little proud. She also pointed out that at least Daniel's teasing would cease as well.

When he dropped her home, he was interrogated by her mother about whether or not he'd done all of the things she'd suggested. He told her he had, and Bridget eagerly confirmed it. "And then some," she said. "Woke me to take more fever pills and made me drink tons of water."

Pam looked quite pleased.

As she walked him to the door, he was struck by what else they had been distracted from, with the relapse of her illness, and the whole Daniel encounter. "You know," he said. "We forgot something."

She was utterly bewildered.

"Your birthday present."

She blinked, then laughed. "It'll keep, won't it?"

He thought about her bottle of perfume, more of that same lovely rose and vanilla combination she'd bought for herself so long ago, and about the silver hairbrush and mirror set embossed with beautiful, full roses on the reverse. They would certainly keep. "I'll bring it next time I'm back."

She nodded.

Any thoughts of further intimacy were to be thwarted that weekend, putting a heavy underscore beneath Bridget's statement that they had no privacy to speak of. It was impossible to get the image of her out of his mind of her on the bed, curves on full display, breasts full and pert, skin that was ivory and, from the all-too-brief touch of his fingers on her hip, velvety. He realised he would have start thinking about their first night together, start planning so that it was a good experience for her. He was a little nervous himself; he had never slept with a virgin before, and he thought of it as an honour… and a big responsibility.

………

It wasn't a suite in the Plaza Hotel, but it would do.

He rang up The Swan and asked if it would be possible to take a room on the first weekend of December. That weekend was the last weekend he'd be able to visit Bridget before an avalanche of work was due before the end of term. He was in luck, and promptly made a reservation for a room with a fireplace. He requested that flowers be brought in to decorate the room.

While he didn't like subterfuge, he was not above a little to get her away on their own; he thought he could pick her up, whisk her to their suite, then return her on Sunday, but he hadn't quite decided on the excuse as to what they'd say they were doing, and what he'd say when they were out all night.

He decided to surprise her with this getaway; he figured that although she had put forward a brave face, she was probably quite nervous, and he didn't want to give her time to obsess on it.

When he showed up to the house on Friday evening, she was in tears.

"Bridget, what's wrong?"

"You are never going to believe this," she said. "I'm being treated like a baby!"

"Tell me!"

"I've been bloody grounded this weekend!"

"Grounded? Why?" Mark was suddenly horrified to think that her parents had somehow found out the two of them had gotten quite physically intimate.

"Get away from that door, young lady," said Pam, appearing from behind her, then coming to stand directly between the two of them. Directing her fiery gaze at Mark, she said, "Because she called her teacher a very naughty name and got sent home."

"I called him a cold-hearted arse for assigning a research paper over the holiday break," she said with a pout.

He tried not to laugh. Then he realised being grounded meant—

"Mrs Jones, that's not so bad. Surely you can forgive this transgression," he said. "It is rather cold-hearted to assign schoolwork over the Christmas holiday."

"I agree," Pam Jones said with a huff. "But she didn't need to insult him to his face."

"I never meant for him to hear," she grumbled.

"Well, that's neither here nor there," Pam said. "You still need to watch your filthy mouth, and this will teach you a lesson." She considered Mark, and seemed to soften a bit. "However, since you did drive all this way just to see her… I suppose you may come for supper tomorrow night."

Mark was dejected, but he was not about to defy her mother. And he was definitely not going to tell her of his dashed plans.

"Mum!" she said, pouting. "This isn't fair!"

"I bet you'll watch your tongue in future," she snapped.

"If I might come a little before supper," he said, "I was going to help with her French." It wasn't entirely true; they had made no plans to review schoolwork, but he didn't expect a protest out of Bridget.

"I suppose that's fine. Now, Mark, I hate to send you off, but… there you go. Drive safely."

He looked to Bridget, looked to her mother, and nodded. "Goodbye," he said.

Defiantly she ran around her mother, jumped up on her toes, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him briefly on the mouth. "Until tomorrow."

Saturday was spent on the sofa with more cuddling than French revision—it almost seemed as if Pam was turning a blind eye to the fib—but the longer he sat with her, the more he realised that he wanted to touch more of her creamy skin before that first night came to be.

………

Two weeks later, at the very start of the Christmas break, they came very close to taking things a step further. His parents were visiting friends in the Cotswolds, a two day journey at least, and he had her home alone with him in front of the fireplace, in the glow of the flames and the soft fairy lights. A snuggle on the sofa became a kiss; the kiss deepened quickly, and he leaned her back against the cushion of the arm.

His hand hesitated at the bottom of her jumper but she whispered into his ear that it was all right, that she wanted him to. He could feel bumps raise to meet his fingertips as he swept them up along her the bare skin of her abdomen until they reached the fabric of her brassiere. As he pressed his hand into her, cupped her breast with his hand, teased the nipple through the fabric of her bra, she gasped, her fingers tightening their grasp on his own jumper before letting go, before pushing away to meet his gaze.

She then reached down and lifted the jumper up and over her head, then leaned back again, putting her hand at the nape of his neck as she kissed him. He could not keep his kiss from trailing from her mouth to her throat, felt the silver chain pass under his lips as he continued down to a spot directly between her breasts. When he pushed aside the bra cup to kiss her there, too, as if by instinct, she arched her hips up into him, leaned her head back over the arm of the sofa. When he ran his tongue over the hard bud of her nipple, he swore she moaned.

"Mark," she said breathlessly, lifting her head to meet his gaze with her own. "I don't want you to stop."

He did not reply, merely treated her other breast with the same attention as the first while he considered sweeping her up to his room, where he'd already arranged everything they might need to spend the night together; candles, flowers, and condoms…

That was when he heard her say, in a most lucid, desperate tone, "Oh my God."

He stopped. He heard it too. The front door, this time closing. He especially heard his father call out, "Mark, m' boy? Where are you hiding?"

They'd had mere moments to restore Bridget's jumper and their own postures to one of something far more innocent. She remained reclined, while he sat up and stretched her legs cross his lap, then flung the blanket down over them. It would be several moments yet before burgeoning desire was quelled, and it was best to try to hide it.

"Mum, Dad, what happened to the Cotswolds?"

"Bloody hell, got halfway there only to find the road's been bloody closed due to the weather!" It was very unlike him to use intemperate language, and he seemed to realise it all at once. "Bridget, m' dear, pardon me for that; it's just that we were supposed to have had clear sailing… storm out of nowhere…"

"Better to be safe than sorry," she said; her cheeks were a little ruddy but that could be easily ascribed to the warmth of the fire and the blanket over her. Under the blanket her hand found his and squeezed it.

"Storm's apparently moving this way," Elaine added. "You'd think your father would know best of all people the tempestuousness of the weather."

Malcolm said, "Lad, you best get Bridget back home before she's stranded here."

Mark looked to her. She was obviously holding back on a smile. "Yes, sir."

"That," she said, once they were in the car and moving away from his house, "was a very close call." She was halfway between horrified and laughing with delight at the successful escape.

"You don't have to tell me twice," he said.

When he arrived home, after he had slipped out of his overcoat and shoes, his father was waiting for him in the sitting room with a shot of scotch. It surprised him, quite honestly, though he was grateful for it. The storm was rolling in with great force, and the snow was really coming down now. "Thanks, Dad," he said, sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, images of his most recent foray on the very same sofa flashing inconveniently to mind.

"Figured you'd need it. Cheers," he said, raising his own in a little toast before sipping from it, sitting beside his son. "Bloody cold out there."

"Yes," he said, sipping his own.

"Not supposed to last for long, I hear," he said. "Should be able to drive to see Peter and Barbara some time soon."

"That's good."

"And you… you might want to think about taking Bridget down to the London flat for the weekend sometime. Lovely down there in December."

Mark very nearly choked on the scotch he was swallowing. "What?"

"The flat, you know, near Trafalgar Square…"

Mark knew exactly of which flat he spoke, not that his parents had more than one in London. That Malcolm was suggesting a getaway for his son and his girlfriend had nearly shocked the breath out of him. "Do you mean just the two of us?"

"Of course I mean the two of you. Mark, we may be older, but we remember what it was like to be young."

He was beyond stunned. "You've talked about this?"

"Oh, yes, Mark. Of course we have."

"With the Joneses?"

"Yes, especially with them," said Malcolm. "They are over the moon with the way this has turned out. And we were clearly very wrong. More than a year together, and you're still as devoted to her as ever. We can both see, your mother and I, that you truly love her." After a beat, he continued, his tone slightly more serious. "Now, Mark, you've always been a responsible boy—excuse me. Young man."

"Thank you," he said. He wasn't sure if he liked the sort of scrutiny he was being put under at this moment in time, but he was pleased to learn that his parents had come to see his intentions had always been true.

"So we assume you've been taking… precautions all along."

His shock deepened. He was feeling a strange sense of cognitive dissonance, his father referencing protection during sex, and inferring that he had discussed this with his mother. Stupidly, however, he asked, "What?"

Malcolm gave him a sidelong look. "Mark, you're a bright boy; surely you know to what I'm referring…"

"Yes, yes, of course I know what you mean," he said. "We, um." He felt heat creep up his neck. "We haven't needed to."

It was Malcolm's turn to be surprised. "You haven't been taking precautions? Or you haven't… at all?"

"The latter."

There was a beat before Malcolm grinned and slapped his knee, chuckling. "I'm sorry, son, but to be honest, I don't know how you've managed until now: young, bursting with love and the hormones to match. Two young people who are determined enough find a way…. Well. Why do you think I shouted when we came in? I would have bet—"

"I wanted to be certain she was sure… and ready." He cleared his throat. "I have every intention of… taking precautions." He then felt a little dizzy as he asked, "Have you also… discussed this with the Joneses?"

"Pam is in denial," said Malcolm, "but Colin reasoned it was a milestone already passed, but he trusts you—"

_Oh God_, Mark thought; he could only wonder how Colin had, to this point, allowed him to live.

"Malcolm. Stop it. Whatever you're saying is making him turn red as a beet." His mother had appeared, presumably from the kitchen, as she was bearing a hot toddy. She came to stand beside Mark and patted his hair down as she had done all his life, oddly comforting given the turn the conversation had taken.

"Elaine," said Malcolm, "I told him he should take Bridget to the flat."

"It's beautiful in the winter. What a delightful idea," she said, sipping her toddy.

"A delightful idea," said Mark, "that hinges on her parents' approval."

His mother made a dismissive sound. "Don't worry about that. Colin is on your side on this, at least."

* * *

NB:

1988 was a leap year, so Bridget's birthday fell on a Wednesday.


	12. Chapter 11

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,637.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :) Also, this part is a bit more M / R than previous parts. :)

* * *

_Chapter 11_

New Year's Eve fell on a Saturday that year.

With Bridget out purchasing groceries with her mother for dinner, he decided to talk to Colin directly before mentioning anything to Bridget, to ask if it were all right to bring her to London for the big party in Trafalgar Square on New Year's Eve. He watched as Colin gave the matter great thought from where he sat in his favourite recliner, newspaper on his lap. "That's rather late to be driving back," he said. "The roads are likely to be bad, and drunk drivers are sure to abound…"

Mark took in a breath, almost afraid to continue. "My parents have a flat nearby. They've said it's okay to use it."

Colin pursed his lips, looking up at Mark over his reading glasses. "Did they?"

Mark nodded, reminding himself that they all were convinced he and Bridget were already having sex regularly.

"Hm," he said, looking down to his newspaper again. "I suppose one should experience New Year's Eve in Trafalgar Square, and no better time to do so than when one is young."

Mark allowed a smile. "Thank you," he said. "I'll take good care of her."

"I know you will," he said. "You always do."

"What about Mrs Jones?" Despite her insistence that he call her 'Pam', there were certain circumstances in which he could not bring himself to do it.

Colin waved his hand dismissively. "I'll take care of it." He sighed heavily. "Though to be perfectly honest I'm tempted to tell her you're trapped in London due to a freak storm. Then again, if I do, she might send out the constabulary to look for you…"

He chuckled. "Thank you, again, sir."

"All in a day's work," he said. "Don't imagine you've asked her yet."

"No, sir. Wanted to clear it through you first."

He nodded slightly; Mark knew this was his way of saying he appreciated that consideration. "I'm sure she'll be very pleased."

'Very pleased' did not begin to describe it. Her eyes went wide as saucers, her grin as broad as he'd ever seen it, that is, before she launched herself onto him, hugging him tight, then rearing back and kissing him, at first sweet and chaste, turning passionate and deep. He wished suddenly that it was already New Year's Eve, and they, in London, not at her parents', alone in the sitting room.

"They agreed?" she asked, bewildered, once she drew back from him. "Your parents really agreed?"

"Not only did they agree," said Mark, "my father suggested it."

She blinked in surprise. "You're teasing me."

"Not in the least."

"Unbelievable," she said, more to herself than to him. "Oh! What about my parents?"

"I asked your father before I told you."

"And my mum?"

"Your father said he'd handle her."

She brought her hands to her mouth, still smiling. "I can't believe it. Oh. Mark. This is going to be so fantastic. A mini-break with you at last."

He cleared his throat quietly, then spoke in a low tone, cupping her face in his palm. "Yes. You and me. On our own."

As he said it, she seemed to realise what this implied. "Oh. _Oh!_"

"That's all right?"

"That's more than all right," she said with a smile.

………

Mark's anticipatory enthusiasm for Christmas and Boxing Day now paled in comparison to that of New Year's Eve. Every time he saw her, though, he became increasingly convinced that he was more nervous about their first time than she was. He was in a bit of a quandary, too; he knew what he wanted to buy her for Christmas—the real gift to her, not the book he picked up for her to give her at the family dinner—but did not know how he could go about it without sparking gossip all over Grafton Underwood.

In the end, not that he had a lot of time to decide, as there were only four days until Christmas, he decided he would strike out for Northampton. The selection was bound to be better there, anyway.

When Christmas finally arrived, she seemed quite pleased with her book; when he leaned to peck her cheek, when he whispered to her that he had something else he'd give her later, she smirked and kissed him on the cheek in return.

What she had not anticipated, clearly by her reaction, was that he would send her off with the present that evening. It was a small box, discreetly wrapped, one she could slip unnoticed in her bag. "Open it in your room later," he said.

He had debated whether or not he wanted give it to her in person, and would have liked to have seen her reaction upon opening it and holding it up, but the scarcity with which they actually had time together alone meant her opening it in front of her parents. He did not want that, even if they already thought the two of them had slept together.

It was modest for what it was, and that was his intention. It was 'babydoll' in style, made of opaque cream-coloured silk with a hint of pink, very soft to the touch; it had delicate lace edging along the hems, a broad scoop neck, a pale pink ribbon along the bust line, and was long enough (assured the clerk, who was of similar height and build) to come mid-thigh. There was also a robe of a similar length and design, and a matching pair of pants, loose and silky.

When she came with her parents the following day for Boxing Day dinner, he swore she could not look him in the eye, at least not at first. "It's gorgeous," she said at last, not waiting for him to ask, at a point when they had a moment alone in the kitchen just before supper. She looked a little uneasy, though.

"I'm glad you like it," he replied. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong," she said; he didn't quite believe her, but he didn't push it. He suspected she was anxious for the following weekend, which he understood. He was himself not unworried about the upcoming rendezvous. He knew this would set the stage for sex the rest of her life; he wanted it to be as gentle and pleasurable as possible. He was, however, concerned about two things: that he would lose the restraint he planned in keeping while making love to her, leading to his second fear, that the first time was, under normal circumstances, something that could be quite painful for a woman, and he didn't want to do anything to make it worse.

"What about you?" she asked.

"Me? I'm fine." He bent to briefly kiss her. "Now we should bring out the wineglasses before my mother comes looking for us."

She smiled and nodded, and they did not speak of it again that night.

………

The week passed quickly. While he saw Bridget quite regularly, he also found himself occupied in fussy details; he took the car to be serviced (would not do to break down on the road between there and London), went to get his hair cut (ensuring his sideburns were left at the length she liked best), bought a new razor (for an extra close shave)…

Friday night he had a very hard time sleeping. He tossed and turned wondering if he had forgotten anything for the weekend; he made himself crazy thinking of things like what he had done with the condoms he had purchased, causing him to push back his covers and go in search for them, only to find they were exactly where he'd thought they would be, in the travel bag he had already packed for himself. He also double- and triple-checked that the chocolates he had for her hadn't run off, either, and planned on phoning the housekeeper to verify she had purchased the groceries he had asked her to get.

He finally did fall asleep and woke far later than he usually did—verging on eleven o'clock in the morning. His late appearance surprised his mother. "Mark? Are you feeling all right?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine."

"When are you leaving for London?"

"I, um, I thought we might leave in time to have supper in London, before… the festivities."

She smiled. "Ah. Are you all ready to go?"

He thought of his mental checklist. Call the housekeeper, top up the car with petrol, shower, shave… "Pretty much, yes."

She laughed lightly. "Of course you are."

At a little before four in the afternoon he phoned her. "Ready?"

She was quiet at first, then said shyly, "Yeah." He could tell she was smiling.

"I'll be over shortly."

Mark was curious as to what exactly Colin Jones had said to Pam, but he did not want to ask; when he arrived to the house, she greeted him enthusiastically. "Mark!" She took him by the shoulders then reached to peck his cheek. "She'll be right down."

"Thanks."

"Bridget!" Pam called up the stairs at top voice, before turning back to him. "You'll take extra precaution, now, I hope?"

Her words made him think of the euphemism his father had used. He was sure she did not mean that, at least he hoped she didn't. "Pardon?"

"Driving on those icy roads; I do hope you'll drive slowly. Trafalgar Square's not going anywhere."

"Of course," said Mark.

Colin appeared from the sitting room, smile in place. "Ah, Mark, thought that would be you. I'm sure she'll be right down."

Mark nodded.

As predicted, she appeared just then, overnight bag in hand, long hair drawn back in a plait, shy smile in place. "All set?" he asked, reaching to take her bag from her.

"Yup," she said.

"Have fun!" said Pam brightly. At this, Mark was convinced that she believed they would return that night.

"Bye, Mum."

She kissed her mother on the cheek, then went to do the same for her father. He instead drew her into a hug. "Love you, poppet," he said tenderly.

"Love you too, Dad," she said.

Mark helped her into her coat before they left the house; he opened the door for her, closed it once she got settled, then put her bag in the boot. He sat behind the wheel and turned to her. "You didn't forget your… Christmas present, I hope?"

"I didn't forget."

Within a few minutes they were moving forward.

Thanks to a bright sun and cloudless winter sky, the roads were as dry as they could be, and the drive was smooth and quick. They talked very little, but it was not uncomfortably quiet. He held her hand the entire time, releasing it only to change gears, and even then only reluctantly.

As a result of those perfect road conditions, they made it to the flat in good time. It was on an upper floor, and after a quick trip up the stairs, he was at the flat's door. He dug into his coat pocket—

And did not find the key.

He felt his expression change, his face fall, as he patted down the pocket, as if that would magically make it appear. He dug into the other pocket, then into his trouser pockets.

"Mark? What is it?"

"Flat key. It's here somewhere," he said, suddenly convinced he had left it on his bureau. He then remembered the inner breast pocket, and reached in there to find it. He sighed in relief. He had not relished another four hour round-trip drive to get the key.

He turned the key, pushed the door open, allowing her in first. They were greeted by an array of windows, drapes drawn back to reveal a stunning view of the city; while not exactly overlooking Trafalgar Square, the tree and the throngs of visitors to the square were certainly quite visible. She went for the windows; he went to the bedroom to drop their bags. He looked around the room, at the freshly made-up bed, and saw that everything was as he'd requested; flowers on the bureau and on the bedside table, as well as several thick pillar candles. He drew the curtains closed then left the room to join her at the window.

"Mark, this is amazing." She placed her hand on the pane; he looked at her gazing out to the stretch of metropolis before her. "Every time I come to London I love it more."

He put his arm around her waist. "Someday," he said, "you and I could live here together."

"In this flat?" she said, looking up to him suddenly.

He chuckled. "I meant London," he said, "though I don't see why not this flat."

She tinted pink. He leaned and placed a kiss into her hair.

"Are you feeling hungry?"

She nodded; he could feel it beneath his cheek.

"It's nearly suppertime," he said. "I'll cook for you."

She turned suddenly in his arms and reached up to kiss him, putting her arms around his neck. He embraced her and held her close, kissing her for many moments until she broke away with a lopsided grin. "You're too good to be true," she said, raking her nails back through his hair.

He chuckled. "Wait until dinner's actually ready before you make that proclamation."

She smiled again before going a little more serious. "I really do love you."

She had always had an ability to just say what she was thinking, sometimes to her detriment, but at times like this, he loved her all the more for it. He pecked her on the lips again, not wanting to tempt himself to skip dinner for dessert, as it were. "I love you too, Bridget," he said quietly, raising a hand to trace a finger along her fine brow. "Why don't you relax on the sofa while I make supper?"

"I could help," she said.

The meal he had planned was not complex, just a simple pasta dish, and he honestly wasn't sure he wanted the distraction, but he agreed. "You could grate the cheese for me."

Within a few minutes, he had a pot of tomato sauce going and water on to boil for the pasta, while Bridget diligently grated the parmesan. "Feel a bit like slave labour," she joked.

"Be careful," he said, stirring the tomato sauce. "I don't want to run you to Accident and Emergency for grated knuckles." He heard her laugh lightly.

After throwing the spaghetti into the water and setting the timer, he added fresh basil and other spices; the scent filling the air made him suddenly very hungry. He raised the spoon up to his lips for a taste. It wasn't bad, but he had the feeling it needed a little something extra. He brought the spoon to Bridget and held it up. "What do you think?"

She leaned forward and took a taste off of the spoon. "Mmm. Tastes good, but… maybe a little more salt?"

He nodded, suddenly unable to speak. The sight of her touching her lips to the spoon had unintentional consequences, sparking his desire again. He only stood there, gazing down on her.

"Mark, the timer."

She was right; the timer indicating the pasta was done was blaring. "Right." He went for the oven gloves and the colander with which to strain the pasta. "Are you done with the cheese?"

"Yes."

"Get some plates down from that cupboard, will you?"

"Sure."

As the pasta drained, he added salt to the sauce and found it was exactly the thing that was missing; he served up the pasta and spooned on the sauce. He poured them each a tall glass of sparkling water with lemon over ice. The sun was already down; the lamps were turned low; the vista of the city lights, including the tree, were before them as they sat down to eat.

"This is lovely," she said, sprinkling her pasta with freshly grated cheese, her chin resting in her hand as she leaned on the table. Tasting her pasta, she praised it with a long, "Mmm." After chewing, she said, "My mum buys the sauce in the jar."

He laughed lightly, sipping his water. "You saw how hard it was to make it from scratch."

"The effort's appreciated all the same," she said. She dropped her hand from beneath her chin and reached across the table to place her hand on his.

"I'm glad you like it."

She nodded, returning her attention to her dinner.

They ate in a comfortable silence, and, he hoped, not too quickly. As they finished, he swept the plates up and popped them and the pots into the dishwasher, grateful he would not need to worry about washing up. He returned to her to see her standing at the window again.

"Up for dessert?" he asked her.

"In a few minutes," she said. "Just enjoying the view."

"Do you want to go down to—?"

She turned to him very quickly. "No," she said. "Trafalgar Square's not going anywhere." That she echoed her own mother's words made him smile. "Tonight is, I think, for us."

He went to her, just to stand beside her, hold her close, to look down at the glittering lights, the beautiful tree, the crowds. It was mesmerising, and he might have been tempted to stand there a lot longer, except, well, there were more important things on his agenda that night.

He said close to her ear, "I'll go make some tea for dessert."

"What is dessert?" she asked, turning to him.

"Wait and see," he said mysteriously.

It was in fact a Sacher torte, chocolate cake with dark chocolate icing and a centre of apricot marmalade. He first brought out the tea, a pot of decaf black and two cups, then next came out with two slices of the divine cake, a dollop of unsweetened whipped cream on each slice that had been prepared in advance by the housekeeper, whom he would have to thank profusely.

"Oh," she said reverently as she took her seat again. "Amazing."

He poured some tea for her, inwardly smiling at her continued use of that word. "It's from a patisserie not too far from here. I hope you like it."

She did not wait for further ceremony. She cut a fork into the cake and brought it to her lips. "Oh, Mark," she said, then chewed and swallowed. "That's it. You're trying to kill me."

He burst out with a laugh. "Kill you?"

"This is… oh my God. I may not be able to stop. And then, boom. Explode."

He ate some of his own; it was incredibly delicious. After sipping some tea, "Well, success yet again."

"In a series of attempts on my life? Indeed." She had another forkful before sipping her tea. "This is twice as tasty at it looks. You have outdone yourself, love."

Her saying 'love' in that throaty, satiated tone zinged through him; he was at once nervous yet impatient to be done with dessert. When he didn't reply, she looked from her cake up to him, probably correctly reading the look in his eyes. She blushed a little, then proceeded to eat the rest of her cake, and finish her tea. It took herculean effort not to inhale the remainder of his dessert in one breath.

He gathered up their dessert plates and teacups, bringing them to the kitchen. When he returned to where they'd been eating, she was already on her feet, smiling anxiously. He went to her, cupping her face in his hand, taking her hand in the other, then kissing her sweetly.

"Why don't I put on something more comfortable?"

As she said it, he saw her start to fight a laugh, which prompted him to do the same. They then burst out into laughter simultaneously, and he embraced her. "Lord, that sounded cliché," she said, still helpless with giggles.

He kissed her head. "I'd love if you did, though," he said, stroking her hair, running his fingers along her braid.

With her hand in his, he brought her to the bedroom, pointing out her overnight bag to her. "I'll just be a few minutes," she said, her voice a little shaky. He nodded, and with bag in hand she left for the attached bathroom.

He had pulled his shirt up out of his trousers and had three buttons undone when she unexpectedly reappeared. "Um," she said, her eyes fixed on his state of undress, "Where are the towels?"

He laughed. "Oh, love, I'm sorry. They're just out here."

He went to the linen closet in the hallway, brought in a stack of fluffy white bath towels, some smaller hand towels and a couple of washcloths. "I'll be right back, myself," he said. "Take your time." She nodded, then ducked into the bathroom.

Bringing his own bag with him, he left the room for the guest loo, where he washed up, carefully shaved so as not to be remotely bristly, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and undressed to slip into a pair of pyjama bottoms. After a moment's scrutiny in the mirror, he took his bag back to the bedroom to light the candles, turn back the sheets, opening then storing the box of protection in the bedside table. He brought a few small towels to the beside as well. He then sat on the bed, waiting for her.

At last the door peeked open, the light within winking off, and she emerged from the bathroom. He caught his breath at how extraordinarily gorgeous she looked; her hair, now freed from the plait, was brushed out, beautifully wavy and shining like gold in the candlelight; her eyes sparkled as they met his, her lips glistening pale pink from her lip gloss. Her arms were down at her sides, one hand on the door jamb as she stepped tentatively out. She was wearing the nightgown set he had bought for her; the illusion of angel was complete, with the pinkish-cream silk clinging to her breasts then draping down over her curves.

She offered a shy smile. "I hope this means you approve."

He started at the realisation that he had not spoken. "Oh yes," he said. "Very much so." He reached his hand out towards her. "Come here."

He saw her take in a deep breath before stepping towards him, placing her hand in his. "All right?" he asked gently.

She nodded. "Just a bit nervous," she said.

"Darling, it's only me," he said, tugging her closer then releasing her hand to run his fingers along the sleeve of the robe.

"I know," she said.

Again he said, "Come here." He brought his hand to her hip, to guide her to sit on his lap. He held her around the waist as she did, noticed she was trembling under his touch. "You're shaking," he said, concerned for her even though having her on his lap in the soft silk was turning his thoughts towards the lusty.

"Like I said," she said. "A bit nervous."

"Darling," he said, summoning every ounce of his willpower, "if you're not sure, we can wait."

She shook her head. "I'm sure, Mark. And I know you won't hurt me."

"I would certainly never do so on purpose," he said, stroking her hair with his other hand, "but it does sometimes hurt."

"I… don't really mean that," she said, locking her eyes with his again, bringing her hand to his own face. "I just… I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint you."

"Bridget." He moved his fingers to caress her cheek, then her throat. "I can't imagine any circumstance in which that is possible." At that a smile involuntarily escaped her.

With that he moved his hand up and around to cradle the back of her head, then placed his lips upon hers for a light kiss. He drew back to meet her eyes again; as he did, she leaned into him to kiss him back. This embrace, this kiss, quickly turned into something ardent. She turned at the waist to embrace him properly; his hands moved to her back, running up and down the silk, then settling on her bottom, pulling her into him as he leaned back onto the bed with her.

He turned them so that she was upon the pillow and he was beside her. The scent of her rosy perfume filled his nose as he moved his kiss from her lips to her chin and to her throat. This was not new ground; he had nuzzled into her neck on several occasions, but this was altogether different because there was nothing but her own words that would stop him. His hand moved over her arm and shoulder, over her breast, pushing aside the robe to bare her shoulder so that he could kiss her there as well. He pulled himself away, propped up on one elbow, looking down upon her, feasting his eyes on the array of golden hair and pale silk around her. He felt his desire for her building rapidly. He had never wanted any woman as badly as he wanted her right now.

She pushed herself up to meet him again, to kiss him, and he took the opportunity to push her robe down even farther on her arm; they moved together, sitting up briefly, until it was off of her altogether. The sight of her lying there in the babydoll camisole was almost more than he could bear, and he said abruptly, "You're so beautiful, Bridget."

"Mark," she whispered in return, her gaze unwavering. He dove upon her with another kiss, his hand moving over her body, down to her waist and hips. As she raised her knee, it continued over the curve of her arse and down her thigh; he had a tough time deciding which was softer to the touch, her skin or the silk.

He raised the hem of her nightgown to reveal the silky pants, then continued to pull it up so that her abdomen was revealed to him; he had seen her in the nude before, but this voyage of discovery rendered her that much more lovely to him. She raised herself up again in order for the babydoll to be removed altogether; he took a moment to appraise her beauty before returning his kiss to her mouth then to her throat and down to her breast. She moaned and writhed under him as he gently grazed his teeth over her skin, lovingly teasing one of her breasts with them while running his fingers over the other.

He hoped he wasn't moving too quickly for her, but he found that the more he saw and touched, the more he wanted to see and touch. He brought his hand to her waist, to the elastic of the pants; as he engaged her in another passionate kiss, he slipped his fingers beneath it with the intent of lowering them, running his hand over the soft skin of her bottom as he pushed them down; she raised her hips so that he could take them completely off of her.

_Apparently not too quickly at all_, he thought, particularly as she turned so that she could more effectively run her fingers over his back. He gasped at the feel of her nails raking along his spine, at their bare skin pressed up together.

He made a soft sound of appreciation, hoping to encourage her in what she seemed hesitant to do. He had every intention of leading her every step of the way, but he wanted to her to be free to touch him in return.

As he ran his hand over her bottom again, he felt her hand hovering at the waistband of his pyjamas. He made that sound again as she slipped her fingertips just under the edge the fabric, moving from his hip to his abdomen, but not venturing further.

With he heat of her breath on his cheek, the open mouthed kisses she was delivering to his own neck, he knew it was time. She must have felt exactly how aroused he had become; there was no way she could have not felt it, with the way she was pressed up against him. "Bridget," he murmured, holding her arse in his palm, stroking in broad circles, "I'll need to stop for a moment."

She drew back, slight confusion riddling her features. He looked pointedly down to where her hips and his met, then back up. "Oh," she said bashfully.

He rolled away from her towards the nightstand; he felt the bed move behind him as he did. He stood to slip his pyjamas down, then sat again and reached in for a packet. When he was finished, he slipped his legs under the covers then turned back to her. He saw she had also slipped under the covers.

"Still all right?" he asked. If he had to, he would stop… but he hoped he wouldn't have to.

She nodded, then blushed a little.

"What?"

"You have a really nice bottom."

He chuckled, then reached for her again. "And you, love," he said, kissing her once more, "you are more beautiful than I could have ever dreamed."

He placed his hand on her hip as he laid her back against the pillow. As he kissed her deeply, as his hand traced along the crease of her leg, as he got close enough against her to remind her how much he wanted her, she gasped a little into his mouth.

From that point on he gently led her forward, whispering words of comfort and love into her ear as he caressed her; he let his fingers trace careful and delicate lines along her skin, asking permission every step of the way as he did. She tensed a little as he touched between her legs, but he kept at it until she relaxed again, until she began moaning and breathing hot on his neck. He could not have been more cautious and tentative, and what under any other circumstance would have been torturous was a labour of love to him.

When he finally climbed over her, when he braced himself up with an elbow and rocked forward and into her, when he felt all resistance fall away, she squeezed her eyes closed, cried out in pain and began to weep a little. Profuse with apologies, he took it as slowly as she needed him to, and as they moved together, as he continued to kiss her tenderly, soon the tears made way for gasps and unmistakeable cries of pleasure.

As he felt himself coming closer to climax, he found he had to consciously restrain his thrusts; he did not want to hurt her unnecessarily. However, there was a point when he could contain himself no longer; driving forward harder than he'd intended, he tensed and cried out as he came. He buried his face in her neck, kissing her throat as the climax subsided and his breath returned to him.

He leaned over to the side, carefully pulling her with him, holding her close to his chest. "I'm so sorry to have hurt you. Are you all right?" he murmured.

"Mm-hmm," she said, her voice muffled in his neck as she clung to him, arms about him, leg hooked over his.

"Are you sure?"

She reared her head back, kissing his throat. "All right enough to want to do that again sometime," she said softly.

He laughed, feeling overwhelmingly relieved.

After a few minutes of silence, she asked, "Mark? How long are we supposed to wait?"

"Wait?"

"Before we can do it again."

He laughed again, then kissed her. "There's no set time," he said. "Long enough to recharge, I suppose. And only if you're not too—"

"Only if I'm not too what?"

"Sore," he finished sheepishly.

She stroked his shoulder then his arm with her fingertips. "It's a pleasant ache," she declared at last. "One that I'm sure diminishes with repetition, like any exercise, I suppose."

He chuckled again, a second wave of relief washing over him. He felt very fatigued all of a sudden; the anticipation, the planning, the worry that something would go horribly wrong… and now that they'd done the deed, he felt all of that released stress catching up with him. He fought it, though. He did not want to drift off to sleep. He wanted to be there for her.

"Bridget," he said. "I need to… move."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She released him and seemed ready to push herself away, but he held her fast.

"Slowly. Hold on."

She did not seem to understand, at least not until he manoeuvred himself back with great care so as not to let anything untoward happen to the condom. "Oh," she said. "Sorry."

"It's all right," he said, sitting up with his legs over the edge of the bed and taking care of discarding it. "It only takes one mistake, and I don't think either of us are ready to be parents."

"God no," she said quickly.

When he turned back to her, she looked so beautiful lying there, her tresses dishevelled, her body bared to the waist, resting her cheek on a folded arm, looking up at him with wide blue eyes, that he felt his passion building again. He pushed it down; it was too soon for her. He swung his legs back up onto the bed and slipped them under the sheets, lying down beside her, resting his cheek on his own folded arm, his eyes even with hers.

"You look tired," she said, reaching her hand out to caress his cheek.

He nodded, blinking slowly. She continued the light touch to his face; his eyes drifted closed, and he fell asleep quite against his will.


	13. Chapter 12

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~4,060.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 12_

"Mark!"

It was the alarmed tone of her voice that startled him back to wakefulness. "Bridget? What? What's wrong?" He pushed himself upright, his eyes searching for a clock. Just before ten. As it was still dark in the room, it was clearly still evening.

She had tears on her cheeks. "I, uh, ruined the robe."

"What? Oh." As he asked it, he realised what she meant; the silk robe had been beneath them as they'd made love. "Darling, it's all right. Here. Have this." He reached for one of the towels and gave it to her. "Is it… are you still…" He did not know how to tactfully ask.

"I don't think so," she said tremulously, then advised after a moment, "No. No."

"Good. Give me the robe. I'll take care of that for you."

He took it to the bathroom and with a little cold water and some soap, the robe was almost as good as new. He hung it across two pegs over the heat grate so that it could dry, then went back to her, still in bed.

"Well?" she asked.

"It'll be fine. Wouldn't know if you didn't know."

She smiled. "Thanks." She still seemed distracted, her gaze drifting away from meeting his own.

"Something else wrong?"

"Nothing," she said. "I just… hadn't seen you yet."

He had no idea to what she was referring until he realised he had not dressed before rushing to fix her robe for her. It was his turn to colour as he climbed back under the sheets.

"Interesting," she said thoughtfully.

"I'm not sure how to take that," he said.

"Take that as a compliment," she said. She pulled back the covers, or at least she tried. He stayed her hand. "Mark, come on. I've been curious about you for… well, a long time."

He was not sure how he felt about her contemplating his nether region.

"I think I have the right to take a peek after what it just did to me," she added playfully.

He had to concede the point, and with a smile relented. Her scrutiny seemed borne out of genuine curiosity, and after a moment or two she released the sheet, meeting his eye again. "That does explain a lot," she said completely seriously and somewhat cryptically, resting on her folded arm again.

"Not to me it doesn't."

She pursed her lips. "Logistics, Mark."

He then understood what she meant, and could not suppress a laugh as he pulled her into his arms. It felt so natural and right to have her there with him. "And you're okay?" he asked again, close to her ear.

"Mm, yes, though I haven't tried walking yet," she replied, "which is what I was about to do when I woke you."

"Oh? Did you need me to get you something?"

"Unless you have mastered going to the loo for me, no."

He chuckled again, kissed her then let her go so that she might rise from the bed. "Hm," she said as she got to her feet, "not as bad as I thought." He watched her walk to the bathroom, hair brushing against her waist, perfect bottom moving with each step, and sighed contentedly.

Yes, he thought. This had been well worth the wait.

When she returned minutes later she crawled back in to bed. "I have a surprise for you," he said as she laid down. "For midnight."

"Do you?"

"Mm-hm," he said. "Some champagne."

Her eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Really," he said. "We have something to celebrate."

She smiled. "Yes, we do." She moved so that she was up against him, and the feel of her body along his sparked ever nerve ending to attention. He felt her lips on his cheek; his eyes closed with the rapture of it and he turned his head to kiss her again, pulling himself up against her completely, feeling himself lost in her once more.

As his hands moved over her body, as his lips travelled over her skin, a definite goal formed in his mind. Much more quickly than the first time did he elicit those soft sounds of pleasure from her; much more quickly did his fingers move to between her legs. He heard her gasp, watched her eyes open and meet his, questioning him with a look before succumbing to the ecstasy, her lids closing once more, her mouth dropping open, her breath becoming staggered. He did not falter in his ministrations, quick and deliberate, and as her fingers tightened on his shoulders, as she arched up into him, she began moaning and whimpering such that he thought he might not be able to hold back much longer. With a final cry, she shuddered with her release until she went limp into the sheets.

He watched her regain her breath, watched her open her eyes sluggishly to look at him. "Oh, Mark," she said, her voice scratchy, "that was…" She trailed off, then swallowed hard. "Amazing," she finished.

He laughed low in his throat at her use of that word again as he took her in his arms to nuzzle into her ear, running his fingers on her skin. "Happy to oblige."

"Mmm," she purred. "Please. Don't stop."

He was happy to oblige once more, and this time, evoked another amazing response while they were coupled. Afterwards he held her close and they kissed tenderly; he stroked her hair and told her again how he loved her. She had tears in her eyes again, but they were not from pain or sadness. She declared herself contented beyond measure.

He did not doze again; he knew midnight was fast approaching and he had to uncork the champagne. He kissed her and told her he would be right back, slipping into his own robe before heading out of the bedroom.

As quickly as he could he popped the cork and found two champagne flutes. He did not like to encourage her to drink, but thought given what had just occurred, they both deserved it. He returned to find her pretty much as he left her, and as he entered she looked at him and smiled.

He handed her a flute, then filled it. "Hold on. We're just a few minutes to the new year."

He set the bottle and the second flute down, then retrieved the chocolate from his bag and opened the box for her. "For you."

She smiled. He slipped out of the robe and back into bed, pouring his own champagne.

They could hear the crowds of people cheering down in Trafalgar Square; they especially could hear the countdown to midnight. They each lifted their flute and touched them in toast as the countdown concluded, then drank down the bubbly before leaning in to kiss one another.

"Happy New Year," she said, then sat back. He noticed she looked insufferably self-satisfied as she popped a little chocolate into her mouth.

"What's all that about?" he asked teasingly.

"What?" she returned, handing her flute to him. No sense it letting it go to waste; he poured her another. It was, after all, a very special occasion, and there was one more flute at best left in that bottle. He poured it for himself and took another drink.

"You're looking awfully smug."

"I'm a woman now," she said, raising her chin. "A real woman."

He laughed out loud. He couldn't help it. She looked slightly offended.

"Darling," he said, composing his features, his voice most stern, "_that_ did not make you a real woman. Besides, being a 'real woman' does not mean I won't look after you as always."

She pouted; he wondered if she realised how the opposite of 'woman' that made her seem. "Well, if that didn't, what on earth would?"

He leaned forward and stroked her cheek, then traced a finger down and cupped a breast tenderly in his palm. "You've been a real woman for some time," he said softly, then kissed her again.

Although they'd broken out the champagne to toast the arrival of 1989, the stroke of midnight seemed less and less impressive by comparison.

………

Waking with her in his arms was a delight he had imagined for quite some time, and the reality of it was no disappointment. He woke spooned up against her back; her hair was against his cheek, his arm draped over her and his hand was on her breast. She was still sleeping quite soundly, her chest rising and falling with the evenness only slumber could bring. He kissed the hair at her temple, which caused her to rouse. She opened her eyes, blinked a few times, then turned her head to look up at him. She smiled. "Morning," she said, her voice sleepy.

"Good morning," he replied, reaching over to kiss her on the lips. He had only intended on it being a quick kiss, but she turned to face him, then quickly captured his lip with her teeth, enticing him into something a little more passionate.

"Hmm," he said as he broke away. "What have I done? Created a monster?"

She giggled, then went a little serious. "I have to stock up. This has to last me a while." The reminder that this level of privacy was the exception and not the rule cast a shadow over her features.

Hoping to turn her dark thoughts around, he said, "Well, as a very wise man once said, two young people who are determined enough find a way to make it happen."

"Who said that?"

"My father."

"Oh, _God_." She buried her face into the pillow in her mortification.

He stroked her shoulder reassuringly. "You know, they thought we were already having sex."

"No!"

After a pause, he added, "Well, not your mother. She's apparently in denial, but—"

By this point her shoulders were rocking with laughter. "Stop it," she said, turning over and grinning at him. "Why didn't you say so before?"

"I thought you'd be embarrassed," he said. "I was right."

"Why did you say so now?"

"I don't want any secrets between us."

She looked at him thoughtfully, smiled, then reached to kiss him. He could only think what a perfect day it had turned out to be. He just hoped she wasn't grilled by her mother on any details about New Year's Eve on the city street—

"You're not upset, are you?" he asked.

"About that? No. It's just going to be hard to look my father in the eye when I get home."

"No, not that," he confessed. "I brought you to London ostensibly to spend New Year's Eve in Trafalgar Square, which we never got to see."

"Mark," she said tenderly. "I spent New Year's Eve in heaven, instead. No comparison."

………

Eventually, and only reluctantly, did they tear themselves out of bed to shower (only to return again), then again to have something to eat (but as they ate in bed it was not a far leap for them to afterwards return to amorous activity); only when the clock approached nearly six did he consider that perhaps they should head back to Grafton Underwood.

"Can't we just stay until morning?" she asked with a pout. "We've already missed the Turkey Curry Buffet." _Thank God_, he thought; he wouldn't have been able to endure being at her house and having to keep his hands off of her. "I don't have to be at school, you're still on break… maybe we can go take a walk after supper and see the lights in the square."

It was a tempting idea, but he didn't want to worry their families at home. "I'll call home and let them know the change in plans."

She smiled.

It did not surprise him at all in the least that they did not, in fact, take a walk after supper. In fact, she did not seem up for walking much at all. He prescribed a long, hot bath, and perhaps easing up on lovemaking. She took his advice on the bath, but the lovemaking was too much of a temptation to resist for either.

………

"I wish we didn't have to leave."

She voiced his thoughts as they packed their overnight bags in order to head back home. Despite an expected visit from the housekeeper on Tuesday, he had tidied the place up, run the dishwasher, and stripped the bed of its sheets and set them to washing, mostly to eliminate the evidence of their extended romping, but mostly to prevent temptation from striking again. They really did need to head back.

Bridget sighed. "I know, I know we do. I just hate the thought of having to sneak around."

He knew how she felt. The Darcy house was large enough that he could easily steal her up to his room, but the thought of his mother or father hearing anything, or walking in unexpectedly, proved rather a wet blanket to the entire idea. "We'll figure something out."

"We'd better," she said, coming up to him and snaking her arms around his neck, placing her lips gingerly on his chin; it wasn't his imagination that she had perfected in one short weekend the art of seduction, particularly the seduction of himself. "Now that I've had you, I don't like the idea of not having you," she said in a low tone.

"Bridget," he said in an attempt at coolness, even as he placed his hands on her hips and drew her closer. "We need to go."

The continued light kisses to his chin and lips were doing nothing to strengthen his resolve. "One for the road?" she pleaded in a whisper.

The sofa was an excellent, comfortable piece of furniture, and provided another first for the two of them, her straddling his lap as they made love. She voiced that she approved of the position very, very much, and at a higher volume than he would have liked.

………

"I've told my Mum that we had a flat tyre," she said in a hushed whisper. "And that I fell on the ice and landed hard on my bottom."

He placed his hand over the receiver, unable to completely suppress his laughter at her excuse. "And she believes you?"

"You're the one who said she's in denial," she said. "What do you think?"

"She keeps offering ice packs for your bottom."

She was quiet for a moment. "They do help, actually."

At that he really did laugh out loud. "Oh, Bridget," he said. "I do love you."

She was quiet again. "I love you too." Resuming a whisper, she said, "Tell me you're free to come over. My parents are having dinner at the Alconburys'."

His were, as well. "I could come get you and you could come here."

She mulled it over. "Sure. Your house is bigger."

It had only been four hours at best since he'd dropped her at her house, but he couldn't wait to see her. His parents had given him some news that he thought she would be very pleased by.

When his parents left, he waited another five minutes then departed also; his parents were heading to pick up hers to ride together to dinner. When he picked her up, she greeted him with a chaste kiss. When he got her into the house, she leapt upon him with a much more intimate one.

"Long time no see," he joked as he pulled away, holding her at the waist. "Have you eaten supper?"

"Not yet," she said, running her fingers through his hair, then kissed him again.

"Could fry up some bangers," he said.

"I'd love some," she said. "Maybe some chips?"

She cut up the potatoes into rather impressively evenly sized thick chips, leaving the skin on "to spite my mother," she claimed. They fried up in one pan while the bangers cooked in another, and within earshot and sight of the hob, they engaged in some playful, teasing kissing, sitting on one of the tall breakfast nook chairs with her straddling his lap.

He was surprised they hadn't burned to a crisp.

"They're a little browner than I'd've liked," she lamented, "but quite tasty."

He picked up a little salt and vinegar still lingering on her lips when he began to kiss her again. They'd gone into the sitting room to watch a movie, at least that was the purported reason for taking residence on the sofa, but having his arm around her, having her leaning into him soon gave way to snogging.

"Almost forgot," he said, his nose edging into her hair as he placed delicate kisses on her cheek. "Have some good news for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said, drawing back. "I'm moving."

She blinked. "What? Moving where?"

"Out," he added, which admittedly was not very useful.

"You… said it was good news," she faltered. "You're not going to London, are you?"

"No," he said, though he would be soon enough; Bar vocational was in London in the autumn. "I'm moving to the cottage."

"The—" She stopped. "What cottage?"

"The cottage in the rear garden," he said, "the one that's never used any more. Mum's going to air it out and I should be in there by the end of my break."

"It's the dead of winter," she said.

"Bridget, you don't sound very excited about this."

"How's she going to air it out in January? And won't you be cold?"

He laughed. "Don't be so literal," he said, bringing his hand to her face again. "And _we_ won't be cold. It's not like it doesn't have electricity or plumbing. It's just a little mini-house."

She slowly smiled. "'We', hm?"

"Exactly," he said. "Privacy."

"Will it have a telly?"

"Already does."

"And a kitchen?"

"A small one."

"And a bed?"

"A small one."

She narrowed her eyes. He chuckled.

"I'm teasing," he said. "It's a nice four-poster."

Now her eyes widened again. "What kind of cottage are you talking about here?"

"A respectable one," he said. "You've seen it plenty of times. On the edge of the back garden."

She blinked. "Mark. I thought that was the neighbour's house."

He shook his head.

"It's bigger than my house."

"It isn't," he said, though he wasn't certain it wasn't.

"And this was your idea?"

"My father's."

"Your father's idea. And your mum's going to clean it up." She paused. "Have I mentioned how much I like your mum and dad?"

He chuckled, then bent to kiss her again. It soon turned passionate as snogging between two healthy young adults will turn; jumpers were pulled up, her bra was unclasped and pulled down, fingers were touching and mouths were kissing skin. He did not wish to make love to her right there on the sofa, because he knew if his parents came home early, neither he nor Bridget might be aware enough of their surroundings not to be caught _in flagrante_. His parents seemed to be pretty open-minded about the reality of their son having sex, but they did not need to see it overtly flaunted.

Instead he gathered her up and took her to his room.

………

He was in the cottage before the end of his break—before the end of the week, actually, so eager was he to get in there—but unfortunately not before the end of hers, as she was back to school as of Thursday the fifth. He tried to make it up to her by making supper for her on Saturday night, cuddling with her in front of the telly then whisking her off to bed for a little while before taking her home. He knew that the newly awakened physical side of the relationship was a novelty, and they would not be so drawn to consummate things so often once some time had passed. It was the last time he would see her in probably two or three weeks, as the next two terms, his final two terms at Cambridge, promised to be brutally busy. She shed some quiet tears as she laid in his arms; he stroked her hair and told her how much he would miss her. He couldn't say he didn't feel a little emotional, himself.

Moving to this next level added yet another dimension to an already good friendship and soul-deep love. Once her trepidation about sex had vanished, it was as if she was free to do as she liked; it was as if knowing that since zero experience had not disappointed him, experimentation could proceed without hesitation.

He found he was himself more open to her playful style of intimacy than he thought he might be—but that seemed only right with her, a girl, a woman he'd known so long and loved so much. If he couldn't be free and open with her, he'd have no chance with anyone else.

Daniel beat him back to their shared suite by about ten minutes on the Sunday before term's start. "So, how's your lovely bottomed sex kitten?" he asked, waggling his brows.

"She's quite well, thank you," Mark replied, thankful that he was at least not calling her 'childfriend'.

He stared at his friend, was silent for many minutes. "You had sex. Last night."

Mark tried not to show his surprise, but the word to fall out of his mouth gave it away, as he never would have said them under ordinary circumstances: "Yes."

"So that means… you really _didn't_ that day I caught you in the bedroom."

"How on earth…"

"I have a sixth sense, Darcy," he said matter-of-factly, tapping the side of his nose. "And you—my God, you have the willpower of a eunuch to have had _that_ lovely creature in your bed and not have shagged her. Why was she naked in your bed, then? You weren't really taking her temperature that way, were you?"

Mark wanted to hit his head hard against the wall. "No, Daniel, and _please_ do not refer to B—" He stopped and exhaled hard, mentally kicking himself for almost giving her name away. "—to _her_ as a mere… shag."

"Ha! 'B'!" Daniel shouted, snapping his fingers then slapping his thigh. "Got you flustered enough to say her name starts with a 'B'!"

"Cleaver," he said gruffly. "I have a lot to do before classes tomorrow."

………

One positive side of being as busy as he'd been was that he did not have time to miss her as much as he ordinarily would have. As it turned out, he wasn't able to return to Grafton Underwood until February, and even then he could only stay for Saturday. He spent all of it with her at the cottage, and they spent most of their time at the cottage in bed, either cuddling, talking, or making love.

"Wish your dad had had his idea last summer," she said almost petulantly, his chest pressed up against her back as he held her in his arms.

"We weren't sleeping together last summer," he said.

After a moment, she said, "Maybe we would have been."

He chuckled. "I don't think so."

She flipped over to face him, challenging look in her eyes. "You don't think I could have broken you?"

He knew she was teasing. "I would have resisted. Actually, I did."

"What?"

"When you turned up naked in my bed at Cambridge."

"That was only because I had a fever."

He pretended to think about it. "True."

At that she laughed then bent down over him, her hair dangling in his face as she kissed him. "God," she said as she broke away, stroking his face, "how I've missed you."

He nodded, emotion closing his throat.

With an attempt at levity, she said, "I feel like I went on the pill for no reason."

"Not no reason." Making love to her without an extra layer between them had proved quite an experience for both of them.

"True." She laid her cheek on the pillow. "You're my best friend, you know."

"I know," he said. "You're mine."

She smiled, then looked almost despondent.

"Bridget, what is it?"

She burst into tears. He pulled her into his arms. He didn't press her for details. When she spoke at last her voice was tremulous. "I've been accepted to uni."

"Darling, that's wonderful news."

"It's not," she sobbed. "It's… it's bloody Bangor."


	14. Chapter 13

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,197.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 13_

The best travel time Mark could calculate from London to Bangor was approximately four and three-quarter hours by car, which did not look promising at all. That entire summer with Bridget at first seemed destined to be bathed in the atmosphere of a doomed prisoner. He tried to cheer her, tell her that university would be a wonderful growing experience, but she only gave him a dirty look. "I don't even have a car," she lamented. "How can I even visit you?"

"We'll think of something," he said.

Despite an impending long-term separation, they had some truly wonderful days; in an effort to get her mind off of it, he offered to teach her how to drive.

"What do you mean, you want me to practise with the car off? What good does that do?"

"To get used to the—"

"I'm not going to practise in a car that's not moving. That's silly. I know how to start it, already." She tried to fire it up, but it didn't do anything.

"Um," he said. "The clutch and the brake."

"I knew that," she said huffily, depressing both pedals. The car roared to life. Mark suddenly wished he'd driven out to the country, far, far away from any vehicles, then and only then allowing her behind the wheel.

"It's not like I've haven't done this before. My dad takes me on the weekend sometimes," she confessed.

"Oh, well," he said with a grin, "if your dad's already teaching you, maybe he should—"

"No!" she interrupted, laughing. "I'd much rather be with you."

He smirked. "All right. Release parking brake. First gear."

They crept along at a glacial pace, until they cleared Grafton Underwood proper, at which she decided to floor the gas, startling him. "Bridget, the gear, change the gear, press the—"

The car's sudden stop as it stalled knocked the wind out of him.

"—clutch," he gasped. She smiled, then laughed, and soon he was laughing too.

"Sorry," she said.

"It's all right," he said. "Start 'er up."

Within a few minutes they were rolling on the country road; he told her when to shift and after a few ear-shattering (and wince-inducing) gear-grinds, she got the rhythm of clutch-shift just right. Unfortunately, in the excitement of getting the gears correct, he realised too late that they were going a little too fast. She began to lose control of the wheel for a harrowing few minutes, swerving towards the ditch then in the opposite direction, away to the right of the road in a horrendous overcompensation; he shouted for her to ease up on the accelerator, shouted for her to begin to brake, clutch and downshift. By the time they came to a stop, practically diagonally across the road, they were halfway to Northampton. She was trembling from head to toe, heaving breath in great pants. Abruptly she launched herself out of the car, off the road to sit on the grass with her face in her hands.

"Bridget!" he called after her. He couldn't well leave the car across the road, so he popped behind the wheel to pull it to the meagre shoulder before running to join her, dropping down beside her. "Are you all right?"

She looked to him, almost as if his presence was a surprise. "Yeah," she said, still shaking. "I'm sorry. I'm not a very good driver."

"You were doing fine," he said. "You just went too fast, that's all. I should have said something sooner." He slipped his arm around her, pulled her close to him. "It'll be all right."

He was himself feeling shaken. He had never truly considered a life without her in it, and if at that speed she had but hit a pothole, or a patch of water, or a puddle just the wrong way—

"Mark? Are _you_ all right?"

He was perhaps holding her a little more tightly than he realised, alerted to the fact because her voice was something of a croak as she asked after him.

"Oh, love, I'm sorry," he said, easing up, drawing back to look at her, to take her face in his hands. "If anything ever happened to you, I don't know what I'd do."

"You're being a little dramatic," she said, a hint of teasing in her voice.

"I'm serious."

She drew her lips together, then nodded. "I know."

He gave her a loving kiss, then rose to his feet and pulled her to hers. With his arm linked about her waist they walked back to the car.

"Is it safe to say that you have no interest in driving back?"

"If you would," she said. "I'm still coming down from an adrenaline high."

As they returned to Grafton Underwood, they fell into silence, the radio barely audible. It seemed a little odd, a little uncomfortable, like they both felt they should say something but neither did, at least not until she broke the silence.

"I'd be lost without you."

Not taking his eyes from the relatively straight but narrow stretch of road, he reached for her hand, brought the back to his lips and kissed it. "You have me," he replied, "and I have no intention of going anywhere."

When he lowered their joined hands, she raised them to place a kiss on the back of his hand. He glanced over, and met her grin with his own.

………

"I'm curious."

He opened his eyes, looked down to where she was nestled in the crook of his arm. They'd been watching a film on the telly, _Breakfast at Tiffany's_, but he was tired, and found himself continuing to nod off.

"Hm?" He realised the film was over, and it was dark outside and in, no illumination but the bluish light cast by the screen.

"About you."

He lowered his brows. "What about me?"

"Your first time," she said, turning and resting her head on the arm he had stretched on the back of the sofa. "I know I wasn't your first."

He did not want to have this conversation with her. "Bridget, what does it matter? It was well before you and I."

"I said I'm curious," she said, her eyes luminous in that telly light. "How 'well before' me and you?"

He really did not want to have this conversation with her. Really not.

"She was nothing to me," he said at last. Bridget was aghast at this apparent callousness; he added: "I don't mean I didn't like her or think she was attractive, because she was." He felt that perhaps that was not the right thing to say, either. "Compared to you, though, she was nothing to me."

She smirked. "There was really no right way to answer that, was there? I'm sorry to put you on the spot." She brought her hand up and stroked his arm. "But you seemed so… in control of everything that night, knew what to do, knew what to say to keep me from being a quivering mess… was she older than you were?"

Reluctantly he nodded. "She was the age I am now, also reading law. I was… nervous. Daniel said she fancied me, put the two of us in a room together at a party, gave us some ale… she was a little bossy, told me what I needed to do. God." He felt his skin turn blazing hot. "I'm sure she knew I was… well. Inexperienced. And it showed; oh _God_ did it show. I fumbled my way around as if in the dark. But I was a first-year uni student, a teenaged boy with simmering hormones and inhibitions were down…. Well, the impulse is all too human."

She smiled fondly at him. "It's sweet," she said.

It was the last word he expected to hear. "Sweet?"

"To hear you admit that you weren't absolutely perfect at something."

He chuckled under his breath. "I'm still not perfect."

"Maybe it's my own inexperience talking," she said, "but I think you're pretty darn close."

He bent his arm and brought her close to him, pulled her atop him as he laid back, then gave her a tender kiss.

"Were you a quick learner," she said, teasing him with a series of small kisses to his lower lip, "or did it take multiple lessons?"

"Bridget," he said decisively. "Sometimes you're too curious for your own good."

From the way her brow raised, her lips formed a devilish smile, he regretted saying it almost immediately. "Funny you should say that," she said. "There is something I've been very curious about." He knew better than to encourage her and ask; as expected she proceeded with an exploration that left him feeling quite thankful for her inquisitive nature.

………

As the weekend approached that she was due to leave for her very first term at uni, she could not hide her growing excitement at the new adventure, even as it clearly warred in her head with how far away she would be from him. He was excited about moving to London—and it would be a permanent move, since when all was said and done, he expected to work in London—but was desolate at the thought of further reducing the number of visits he could pay her.

Her parents were taking her early Saturday morning for the long drive. The Friday before her departure, not much was said. After a sedate supper together, they sat on the swing in the Jones' garden. The moon was approaching new, so there wasn't much in the way of moonlight, but the sky was clear and the stars were out and shining brightly. They sat and rocked gently in the warm night air, her head resting on his shoulder.

"I know you have to pack your own things," she said quietly, "but I really wish you could come."

"I wish I could too," he said. He thought of the cottage, the boxes of things he was taking with him to stay in the London flat; his parents had insisted since it otherwise would sit empty. Because his most recent memories of being in the flat was when Bridget was there with him, it would be difficult to return, but having her letters, poems, notebooks of stories she'd given to him, Jim, Jimi and the Lizard King; the adventuress… it would be like having her there, in a way.

"I'll have to go soon."

He heard her sob a little. "I know."

"You'll do well in uni. People are drawn to you. You're cheery and bright and make friends quickly." He tightened his embrace, kissing her on the temple. "Your whole world's about to open up in front of you, darling. I know you'll love the challenge."

"When do you go?"

"I'll leave on Sunday," he said. "I'll be living at the flat."

"Ahh." She was quiet for a bit, surely thinking of their stay there, too. "Give me the address," she said. "I'll write you the minute I arrive."

"Okay."

She turned suddenly on the bench swing and claimed his mouth with her own, combing her fingernails back through his hair, sending a shiver of delight through him as he avidly returned every kiss, tasting the salt of her tears as he pulled her close.

He was going to miss her more than he could ever express.

………

Though London was a city with an excellent public transport system, Mark would have his car there. In all honesty, though, the car he'd had through university was starting to show the effects of all of the mileage put on it during his years at Cambridge, countless trips between there and Grafton Underwood to see Bridget. He did not know how many trips to Bangor it would survive.

His mother and father would surprise him yet again, before he had a chance to pack a single box or suitcase into the vehicle.

"My boy," said Malcolm, "we have a little something to send you off."

He was perplexed, waiting for one of them to continue.

"We hope you like it."

"Come with us, son."

He walked with them around to the front of the main house. A car he did not recognise was sitting there. It was a new model Mercedes-Benz, silver in colour.

"Congratulations."

Mark did not understand. He stared at the car, then at them. "Did I win this?"

They both laughed. "Dear, you didn't win it. You earned it. Coming in at the top of your graduating class is something deserving of recognition."

He walked up to the vehicle, looked into the window. It was pristine, clearly had only be driven from the lot to the drive, with many options installed, including what appeared to be a CD player.

His father spoke up. "Would have had it sooner, but, you know… customising delays delivery."

He was stunned. This was not an inexpensive car. "I don't know what to say."

"'Thank you' is a good start," teased his mother.

"Of course, of course," he said, walking to his parents, embracing them one in each arm. "Thank you."

"Should make for smooth sailing on the long road to your new port of call," his father said, winking and smiling.

Mark grinned too. "Indeed."

………

When Bridget phoned the flat on Monday night, she gave him her address. He asked after her first day of classes; she could only describe herself as shattered. "Between unpacking, buying books, learning my way around the campus… I'll sleep like the dead tonight. How about you?"

He told her of his first day at City University, meeting fellow barrister hopefuls, and returning to the flat on a more permanent basis. Mention of the flat, of where they'd spent New Year's eve together and slept for the first time together, caused both of them to go momentarily silent.

"Do you suppose," she said tentatively, "you know when you might be able to come up?"

"I don't know," he said with a sigh. "Everything will take adjusting to… it's very different than uni."

In actual fact, it was not terribly different. Time was spent in classrooms bridging the gap between book learning and the actual practise of the law: criminal and civil advocacy, opinion writing, negotiation, professional conduct and ethics, litigation and so on. He had every intention of hopping in his new car after supper on Friday night to surprise her; with any luck he'd be there before ten.

"Oh," she said sadly before sighing miserably.

"Surely you've made some friends," he said, trying to cheer her.

"Yes, oh yes," she said. "My roommate and I are getting along swimmingly, but this is her second year, and she's already got a gaggle of friends. They're talking about going out on Friday, and it sounds like fun, but I don't want to invite myself, and I really don't want to be a tagalong."

"Wish there were something more I could do to help," he said. After a pause, he added, "I love you."

She sighed again. "I love you too, Mark."

"Sleep well."

He waited for her to disconnect. He revised his previous plan, and intended on being there by eight, even if it meant eating crap takeaway whilst driving.

………

Navigating to Bangor was relatively easy, and with cruise control on the car—an automatic transmission rather than a standard was something to get used to—the drive was actually quite pleasant. Indeed, the scenery was breathtaking, particularly as he crossed the border into Wales and reached the north-western coast, the late summer sunlight glinting off the waves of the Atlantic Ocean and into his eyes. He imagined he'd be making this drive a lot, and also imagined it would be very difficult to get tired of it.

He managed to arrive into Bangor proper at about ten past eight, which was not bad at all in his reckoning. He stopped at a campus information map to get his bearings, and with a few turns he found a visitors' car park. He grabbed the small travel bag he'd brought with him and made the trek into the residence hall.

After passing quizzical-looking girls and boys—it amazed him how young they looked—it wasn't long before he was standing in front of her door. He raised his fist and rapped firmly on it.

"I said I don't have a bloody scientif—"

As she swung the door open, as her eyes locked on his chest (at first, more at her own eye level), then on his own eyes, she ceased talking, her mouth gaping open, her eyes unblinking for many moments.

"—ic calculator—Oh my God!"

Leaping up onto her toes, she threw her arms around him and pressed her mouth to his. He responded as if a thirsty man to water, his arms encircling her and holding her close. "Mark!" she exclaimed as she released him at last. "You told me you didn't know when you could come!"

"Here I am," he said. "Seems an eternity since last Friday night."

Wanly she smiled. "It does."

"Shall we—" He looked pointedly into her room, then over his shoulder, then at her again. "I'd rather not garner an audience. Well, more than the two already staring at me from down the hallway."

She giggled, then tugged his hand to pull him forward, reaching around to slam the door shut.

"So," she said. "This is it."

What he saw was not what he had been expecting (something closer to the setup he'd shared with Daniel, a suite with two rooms and a common area). Instead, her room was moderately sized, but was a single room with no walls or divisions. Two single beds, two desks, two chairs, a telly (which was on and apparently airing an old movie). There was no bath or kitchen.

"Bridget," he said. "I, um. You have a roommate."

"I realise that."

"We'll have no privacy."

"She knows all about you," she said. "And she's not gonna be home for hours and hours yet."

All consideration for what the morning would be like—waking up in her bed with a third person present in the room, not to mention middle of the night toilet trips and the fact that he had not brought pyjamas (as he rarely wore them)—went by the wayside in favour of the immediate and urgent need to have her, despite only having seen her (and made love to her) a week ago.

Afterwards, snuggled quite cosily in the narrow bed, he combed his fingers through her hair from temple to end, quite a feat considering how long it was. "Was thinking of getting a cut," she said.

"Don't you dare," he murmured. "It's so beautiful, healthy, shiny."

"Sometimes I think it makes me look too young. I'll be eighteen next month."

To think they had only shared their first intimate kiss fewer than two years ago kind of made his head hurt. He combed through her hair again. "While I'd love you if you were you bald," he said, "I prefer your hair was as long as possible without actually causing you to trip or cause you neck injury."

She giggled. "If I must, then you must leave these lovely sideburns where they are."

"It's a pact."

It occurred to him as he began to kiss her again that the sounds of voices in the hall seemed very close indeed, which made him consider the ease of travel of sound in the reverse direction. He hoped no one had been passing by when they'd been in the heat of passion a short while ago. This was, however, of less and less concern to him as the kiss escalated, as he turned her so she was under him again, as things once again heated up.

Things were about as hot as they could get when, as if a bucket of cold water to the pair of them, he heard an unfamiliar female voice exclaim, "Oh!"

He pushed himself away from Bridget, careful to remain covered with the blanket and not to fall to the floor, just as Bridget shrieked in surprise and pulled a portion of the sheets to her chin. He looked at her, then to the strange girl who had just appeared. She had auburn hair, bright eyes, a somewhat shy smile, and was blushing like mad.

"You must be Mark," said the stranger. "We've all heard a lot about you." She walked forward and held out her hand as if to shake it. Slowly he reached out to accept it. "I'm Magda. Bridget's roommate."

………

After such a less than auspicious meeting, Magda went out (ostensibly for something to eat with a friend, but likely to give them a chance to wrap things up, and for Mark to make himself more presentable). "Bridget," he said once she'd left, "I thought you said she would be out for, and I quote, 'hours and hours'."

"That's what she told me," Bridget said, her skin still bright red with her embarrassment. "I'm never going to live this down. It's bad enough that they all think I've made you up."

He snorted, his own mortification slowly slipping away. "Why on earth would they think you'd do that?"

"I talk about you. A lot," she said sheepishly. "It's probably not normal or something, so I'm sure they think I'm delusional."

He pulled her close with a laugh and a kiss. "I'll introduce myself properly tomorrow as someone who is definitely not a figment of your imagination."

She chuckled, nuzzling into his neck; holding her was everything warm and secure. "I'm sorry she came home early," she said.

"We could pick up…" he began.

"Mmm, I think I'm too traumatised."

"You're not the one whose bottom was in danger of being bared," he reminded.

He was, when all was said and done, able to tease the rest of their unfinished business out of her, and upon regaining their respective breaths, she smiled, closed her eyes and sighed happily as he withdrew from the bed to dress himself in his boxers and tee shirt.

"You know," she said, "I hear there's this signal to let your roomie know you're… busy. Something stuck to the door."

"Sock on the doorknob," he supplied automatically. He looked to her; she looked astounded. "I had a sex-crazed roommate. Well. Suitemate, anyway. But he'd do it anywhere his fancy struck."

She stuck out her tongue in distaste.

"Bridget, need I remind you of the sofa in the flat."

"That was different."

"How?"

Just then Magda returned, knocking loudly on the door before she entered bearing a pizza. "Thought the two of you might be a little hungry," she said with a smirk.

"Thanks, Magda," said Bridget.

The two of them began to eat the pizza. It was quite delicious, and Mark found he had acquired quite an appetite, after all.

Magda got to her feet, pulled her handbag up onto her shoulder again. "Looks like you were counting on me to be out for the night, and I'm sorry. All my previous plans fell through—but I can go stay at Jeff's."

"Oh, Magda," said Bridget.

"No, no, it's all right," she said, meeting Mark's eyes again. "Your boyfriend came a long way to see you and my being here… well. Awkward." She was smiling though, definitely more comfortable in his presence now that he wasn't naked and on top of her roommate.

"We much appreciate it," Mark said.

"See you tomorrow," said Bridget. "Not too early."

"Of course not," she said with a wink before leaving.

Once the door shut and the lock turned, Mark sighed and buried his face in his hands. He felt her hand stroke along his back. "It'll be all right," she said. "Magda's really great."

"Bridget, tomorrow first thing, I'm phoning for a hotel room."

She was silent. He turned to look at her; she looked forlorn.

"For us," he added.

That cheered her considerably.

………

It appeared that what Bridget had told him was true: the other girls on the floor did seem incredulous that Mark did in fact exist. He was not offended. He thought it was sweet that she spoke so highly and so frequently of him, though he wondered that maybe she idolised his good points too much and ignored his faults.

She had already showed him to the men's bathroom, and after the conference introducing him to all of her new friends, he gathered up his things, a clean towel, and walked down to take a shower. When he returned, he found she was still in the ladies, and so stood outside her door awaiting her return. After several students passing through gave odd looks to the strange man with wet hair, he began to regret not asking her for the key. She did eventually reappear in her robe, her hair wet and combed out and her face shining bright with a smile. "Feel better?"

He nodded. "I'll feel better still once I have a room for us."

Once dressed, they went down intent on visiting a local restaurant, but Bridget stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the car he approached with key at the ready. "Mark, where did this come from?"

He had forgotten that he hadn't told her about the car, and teased, "It fell out of the sky one morning." After she pursed her lips and told him to be serious, he gave her the story of how he had come to own a brand new Mercedes.

She smiled. "Very nice."

"And no gears to worry about grinding," he said with a wink.

They found a local restaurant at which to have breakfast; right next door was a small hotel, which indicated a vacancy. After securing a room, he turned to her and asked, "All caught up with schoolwork?"

"Yes."

She was probably stretching the truth a little, but he went on to further ask, "Why don't we do a little exploring? This seems a lovely town."

She of course agreed with an enthusiastic nod; after a return to her room for his things and some of hers, they went for a drive to explore the grounds of nearby Penrhyn Castle, then went on a tour of the grand castle itself.

"Could you even imagine living in such a place?" she asked, looking at the art, the furniture, the architecture, all correct and in context for its time.

"No," he replied as they strolled hand in hand. He then amended, "Well, possibly. I mean, living at my parents' house has a similar feel at times."

She laughed. "I love your parents' house. So big and beautiful."

"True," he said, "but sometimes I find myself preferring your parents' house. It's smaller, but every square inch is homey and comfortable."

The day passed quickly into night, and after supper they retired to the hotel for the evening. The place was cosy enough to feel like a home and not a rented room at all, with a small gas fireplace and a kitchenette. "I like it here," he said. "I like the privacy most of all."

With Bridget, it was much more than just having her alone for a shag; he liked to just spend time in her company as he had for many a year, often talking, sometimes not, but never awkward. They prepared for bed and crawled in, but simply laid there for a long time, content to have her warm body against his, the scent of her hair in filling his senses, soft skin under his fingers.

"I'm so glad you came up," she said after many moments in this peaceable silence. "I think I'm adjusting well enough, but it's so good to have you here, a respite from new, new, new all the time."

He laughed low in his throat. "I feel the same way," he said.

They talked for a little about classes—his practical legal training, her working out the Welsh she saw everywhere—before falling quiet again.

The next thing he knew the rays of morning light were peeking through the blinds. He chuckled a little to himself; he must have been tired from the poor night sleep in her dormitory room and their touristy activities out and about in Bangor. He knew better than to try to wake her at such an early hour on a Sunday, so he rose and called down to the concierge for some coffee and pastry.

After its arrival, Mark brought breakfast to the bedside, then sat on the bed. At the motion, Bridget stirred, then opened her eyes, blinking sleepily.

"Morning, love," he said.

She seemed perplexed. "What—what time is it?"

"Seven-thirty."

"In the morning?"

He laughed. "Of course, darling, considering—"

"No! It can't be morning!" She seemed utterly distressed, sitting up suddenly, her hair falling wild and unkempt around her shoulders. "No!"

"It's morning, love." He realised how much this was affecting her when he saw she had tears in her eyes. "What is it?"

Her lower lip was trembling. "It's just that… we're turning into an old couple. And I'm not even eighteen."

"What in the world would make you say that?"

She stared at him like he'd gone absolutely mental. "Shag me."

He blinked in surprise. "What?"

"Now. Shag me now."

"Bridget, watch your language," he said sternly. "Plus there's breakfast."

"So?"

"It'll get cold."

Her mouth hung open ever so slightly. "Don't you want me?" she asked morosely.

"I think given that I'm willing to sleep in a too-narrow, too-firm dormitory bed, risking discovery—and actually being discovered—you'd know that to be patently untrue."

"Then I insist you shag me this very moment."

"I said watch your language," he told her. "And I want to know what this is really about."

"If I have to tell you…" she said, tears welling again.

"I'm afraid you do," he said, "because I have no idea what you mean."

"_Mark_." She stared at him as if willing him to understand.

"Bridget," he retorted.

She fell back onto the pillow, her face in her hands. "I can't believe it," she wailed to herself. "It's over."

"Will you stop being a drama queen?" he said, his voice rising along with his temper. "Tell me."

She drew her hands away, her blue eyes meeting his. "We both fell asleep, _before_…" she trailed off.

It suddenly all came together. She thought they were getting too complacent, or maybe that he was growing bored with her, that the novelty had worn off… that something had occurred that meant he was no longer interested….

He chuckled, then reached for her hand, urging her to sit up again, then pulled her into his embrace. "Bridget, we fell asleep because we were tired. Don't read anything into it that isn't there. Doesn't mean I didn't want to, I know it doesn't mean you didn't want to—and I love you regardless." He nuzzled close to her ear. "Besides, checkout isn't until ten," he murmured, then teased, "Have some coffee, your pastry, and—"

"Shut up and shag me," she said throatily, then turned her head to kiss him.


	15. Chapter 14

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~4,894.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 14_

When Bridget had been fifteen, on the verge of turning sixteen, her eighteenth birthday had seemed very far off. Now that it was just days away, he found himself looking very much forward to celebrating, particularly as he had purchased a present for her that he was quite excited to give her.

Her birthday fell on a weekday again, Thursday this year, and though he drove to see her quite frequently, he was not able to see her on the weekend before, only the weekend after. She seemed a little blue that he couldn't come up on her birthday itself, but seemed to understand, agreed and said she'd see him as per usual, Friday night, some time after eight.

Little did he know she had a little surprise of her own up her sleeve.

On Wednesday night, he had his supper in the oven and was enjoying a glass of red wine while waiting for it to finish when the entryphone rang, indicating someone was wanting to come up. Thinking it was probably one of his classmates, a man who was prone to dropping by to compare notes with Mark's own, he went to the phone, brought it to his ear and said to the awaiting concierge, "Is it Jeremy again?"

"Mr Darcy," said the concierge, his voice laden with scepticism, "I have a young lady here who claims to be your girlfriend."

He blinked several times in confusion. "My girlfriend?"

"Long blonde hair, blue eyes, about a hundred and sixty centimetres tall…"

Mark then heard a familiar voice, "Tell him it's Bridget."

"Yes, yes, please let her up, now and always, thank you." He hung up the phone, then ran to put away the papers he'd taken out to review for the next day. He was thankful, and not for the first time, that he tended to keep a tidy place overall.

There was a light rap at the flat door. He raced for it, swung it open and sure enough, Bridget stood there, smile in place, hair in two braids, dressed for winter weather and a carrier bag slung over her shoulder. "Bridget," he said, throwing his arms about her. "I never expected to see you."

"Hi," she said in an almost shy voice.

He kissed her, then brought her inside, closing the door behind her. "How did you—did you travel alone?" He became abruptly annoyed that she, a beautiful young woman, might have put her own safety at risk.

"I took the train," she said. "I was fine. It was a lovely ride."

He gave her a penetratingly fierce look then fired off a series of questions: "Were you careful? Did anyone bother you? Did you have a compartment to yourself? Did you talk to strangers?"

She huffed and pouted at him with a dirty look. "Mark, listen to yourself. I'm an adult and I can take care of myself," she said, furrowing her brows.

He had another realisation. "You must have been travelling most of the day. What about your classes? How many are you skipping to be here?"

Now she looked like she was gritting her teeth. "I can take the train back if you'd rather I be in class," she said.

His initial thought, that perhaps she should, was overridden by his coming to his senses, and remembering the lengths she'd gone to just to be here with him on her birthday. He decided to drop the line of questioning, gave her a broad smile then took her into his arms, instead. "No, no. I'm glad you're here," he said. "Happy birthday, love."

"Tomorrow," she said, slightly petulantly.

"I know," he said. "We can start celebrating tonight." He pulled back from her, took her bag from her shoulder, walking back to the master bedroom to drop it off. When he returned to her, she was still dressed in her coat, scarf, hat and mittens. She still looked miffed. "What is it?" he asked.

"I would have thought you'd've been more pleased to see me."

"Darling," he said. "I'm delighted to see you. I'm sorry I didn't react with a more positive response… but I'm always going to be concerned about your welfare, and I'm not about to apologise for that."

She pursed her lips.

"Do your parents know you're here?"

"Mark, I swear to God—" she said angrily.

"Sorry." He strode up to her, pulled off her hat, pulled down on the mittens to free her hands, unwound the scarf and tossed it aside. As he undid the buttons of her coat, he brought his lips to hers, teasing her with light kisses; as he pushed the coat off of her shoulders, he took her mouth with his. From the way she responded, he figured he was forgiven; she kissed him in return, bringing her arms up around his neck, arching herself up into him. He snaked his arms around her waist and held her close.

It was then that the timer went off on the roast.

He broke away with a chuckle, heard her laughing too.

"Smells good," she said.

"Good thing I always make enough for leftovers."

As he finished preparing supper, she slipped out of her shoes and went into the loo. By the time he'd plated supper, she came back to the table. He was only then able to appreciate how beautiful she looked, particularly with the form-fitting angora sweater she wore; her hair was loosed from her braids, clear down to her waist like waves of gold.

He was suddenly eager to be through with supper.

Despite the quibble they'd had before, they ate in a very comfortable silence, thought the air crackled with anticipation. He often raised his eyes to find hers were trained on him, a small smile on her face.

At the conclusion of dinner, she set down her fork. "That was very good," she said. "How about dessert?"

"Dessert," he repeated, thinking maybe she was making an oblique reference to sex. "Isn't it too soon?"

"And a bit of a walk, maybe through Trafalgar Square," she added. "Coffee and dessert somewhere, or…"

He scolded himself for automatically assuming the dirtiest possible interpretation. "Yes, actually. That'd be nice, since we never got to take a walk through last time."

It was not quite the same without the holiday lights, but it was lovely all the same. The two of them strolled hand in hand, surrounded by more people than Mark would have expected for a November, around and through the Trafalgar Square area.

"Mark," she asked. "Are there any clubs around here?"

"Clubs?" he asked.

"You know, nightclubs. That might be fun."

"Bridget, you're not eighteen yet," he said. "Let's stick to our original plan. There's a Greek place just by the flat that has the best baklava and Turkish coffee."

"Mark, look," she said, tightening her grip on his hand. "There's one right there. It looks like fun!" As they approached, she added, "Listen, they're playing Madonna. I love that song. Please?"

"Bridget, no," he said firmly.

"Mark, come on! We're young; let's have fun and dance!"

"I don't want—" He stopped when she jerked him forward. "I just want to have dessert and spend time with you."

"Come on, come on. A few songs and we can have our baklava."

"I'd rather not," he said. "I have to get up early tomorrow."

He was sure she was not listening to him anymore; she had let go of his hand and struck out in the direction of the club anyway. The best he could do was follow her and make sure she didn't get herself into trouble.

She approached the very large man with a brush cut standing with his arms crossed over his chest. "Hi," she said to him, smiling her brightest smile up at him.

"Bridget," said Mark.

"We'd like to come in."

The bouncer raised an eyebrow. "I don't think so, little miss," he said with a chuckle. "How old are you?"

Bridget didn't say anything. "I'm eighteen."

The man's chuckle did nothing for her spirits or her ego, Mark was sure. "You're eighteen. Right. Let's see some identification."

"I don't have anything with me," she said. "I was just out for a walk with my boyfriend."

He looked like he was trying not to laugh. "I think you and your… _boyfriend_ ought to return home for a game of Go Fish."

"Bridget, let's go," Mark said insistently, an edge of anger to his voice.

He put his hand around her waist and led her away. Reluctantly she went with him.

"What an arse," grumbled Bridget.

Mark was still pondering the bouncer's comment, wondering if the man was intimating he was some kind of guardian or babysitter. He did not share his thoughts with Bridget, but she seemed to arrive at the same conclusion, just as they got seated for and ordered their dessert at the Greek restaurant.

"It's the hair," she said.

"What?" he asked.

"The hair. People think I'm a kid because of the hair."

He looked to her incredulously. There was no mistaking her lovely body for that of a kid. "Bridget, your hair is stunning."

She drew her lips tight again. "On the train the ticket taker asked me where my mummy and daddy were."

In the ticket taker's defence, her coat did hide her assets, and she had been wearing two braids. However, he was sympathetic in tone when he said, "Bridget."

"I should cut it. Get a stylish haircut. A short thing all spiked up."

"God, no," he said before he could stop himself.

At that she actually smiled, even laughed. "No?" she asked. "Thought you said you'd love me if I were bald."

While it was true that he would, he needed to express to how he loved the feel of her hair, soft as silk through his fingers, how naturally beautiful it was and how it enhanced her allure. "You think your hair makes you look like a child," he said he said after some moments. "I think it makes you look like a goddess. Venus herself."

Her skin flushed pink and she looked down. "Now you're teasing me."

"I would never dream of making light of how I think of you."

He stretched his arm over the table, extending his hand to her, taking her small hand in his larger one. She lifted her eyes to him. He studied her face, so fresh and sweet and lovely with barely any makeup at all, and without thinking he released her hand and raised his fingers to sweep along her cheek.

"I'm sure that doesn't help either," she said, seemingly picking up on his thoughts; "that I don't have on shadow and eyeliner and a ton of mascara—"

"Why use what you don't need?" he interrupted. "You're beautiful just as you are."

She put her hand over his, leaned into it and closed her eyes.

Dessert and coffee arrived at that moment, snapping them out of the moment, and he took his hand back just as they both looked to the waiter. "Thank you," said Mark politely, as she reached for her fork. The waiter nodded and stepped away.

"You're right," she said, tasting the baklava. "This is extraordinary."

He smiled, ate some of the honeyed dessert, and sipped his coffee.

Eating dessert, drinking coffee did not take terribly long. He paid the bill and they slipped back into their coats—he helped her back into hers, told her not to forget her hat—then with her arm in his they strolled upon the streets of London once again.

"Mark," she said, "let's go back to the flat."

It had been his intention all along.

………

He wasn't sleeping, not really, just in that dozy half-awake, post-coital state, but he had the strangest feeling he was being watched, so he opened his eyes and found she was up on an elbow staring at him. "Oh my God," she said. "It worked."

"What?"

"I was trying to think you awake."

He laughed, turning over to face her. "I wasn't asleep."

"Don't you think I don't know when you're sleeping?" she asked, bringing up her hand to trace her fingers along his face. "You look so peaceful when you're sleeping, not a line to be found, no worry in evidence…" She tilted her head, bringing her fingers over his brow. "You're so lovely to look at, sleeping or not. I love your chin, the strong set of your jaw, those gorgeous dimples when you smile, these lovely sideburns framing your lovely cheekbones," she said quietly, continuing to draw imaginary lines over each of these features as she mentioned them. He closed his eyes under her tender touch, though felt himself a little embarrassed at the praise. "Though in the defence of the waking state, it's the only way I can see those beautiful brown eyes or that smile."

With his eyes still closed, he found himself smiling.

"Maybe not," she added playfully.

"The eyes for sure," he said, opening them to look at her.

"The combination is a killer, though," she said. "It has _always_ melted me."

He chuckled, then pulled her back into his arms to hold her close. With his nose buried in her hair, his mind began to wander; he thought of the day when this would be the norm and not the exception, when every night and every morning was spent by her side, every breakfast was each other's company, every day brought him home to her.

It was then that insecurity struck, and he knew it was not unfounded; she'd had the same fears when he'd left for school. Though she had been in love with him for as long as she could remember (by her own admission), she was now at university, surrounded by a much broader spectrum of men; perhaps she would see there was much more to the male of the species than just him. That someone new to her, new and exciting and eager to take her to nightclubs, would catch her attention and they would—

"A penny for your thoughts," she murmured.

He was not about to admit to thoughts of this nature, not on her birthday eve. He turned his inner focus on her spontaneous trip to London to see him. "You."

"Oh?"

"Mmm," he said. "You never answered my questions before."

"I what?" she asked, pushing away to meet his eyes.

"How many classes _are_ you missing?" he said. "And do your parents have any idea you've come here?"

She pouted. "If you were still sleeping," she said, "I'd consider smothering you with a pillow." She glanced to the bedside clock. "It's late. I'll call them tomorrow so they don't worry. And I'm ahead on all of my assignments."

He found it a little hard to believe.

"You don't have to look so suspicious," she added, wounded. "Seeing you means a lot to me, but I do know I have responsibilities."

"I'm sorry to have doubted you," he said, his voice laden with contrition. "I was also considering the time. It's nearly midnight."

At this she grinned. "It's not New Year's."

"But it's your birthday," he said, "or at least it will be, and I'm trying to decide if you get your gifts now or tomorrow."

"Ohh, _now_," she said excitedly.

"I don't know," he said, having already decided to give them to her at midnight. "There's something to be said for tradition, cake and presents and—"

"Where's that pillow?" she asked jokingly, pushing him back into his and kissing him.

"You can smother me that way all you like," he said as he came up for air. "I don't mind a bit."

She laughed, glanced to the clock, then pushed herself away. "Midnight," she announced. "Let's have it."

"Brat," he teased, then pushed the sheets aside, rolled out of bed, and went to the bureau, where the smaller of the two gifts were housed. He had fortunately had it wrapped at the store. He pulled it from its hiding place and gave it to her.

Her eyes lit up. "Oooh. Wonder what this is."

He smiled smugly.

She tore off the paper, slipped the top off of the box, and pushed aside the tissue paper. Her brows lifted, then her gaze followed suit. "Mark," she said. "You should have given this to me hours ago."

"Do you like it?"

"I love it." She pulled it up out of the box by its straps; it was true that he had given her lingerie before, but that was not nearly as sexy or sheer as the silk piece she held in her hands now. "And obviously you do too."

"I'll love it more once I see it as it was intended to be seen."

She scrambled out of bed with the two pieces and into the loo to put the set on. When she emerged, he was at a loss for words; he didn't think it possible for her to look sexier, more beautiful than she had just moments ago, but she did, particularly with her hair untamed from her haste. A vivid, deep red in colour, the camisole piece was cut to her hips; the ribbon-thin straps continued down to criss-cross between her breasts, framing her necklace before continuing around her back. The silk, which he already knew to be soft, was so thin and light that nothing was left to the imagination; this only enhanced the overall effect without being the least bit cheap or tasteless. The matching pants were equally transparent, high cut in a bikini style.

Her cheeks were pink with a flush of slight embarrassment. "What do you think?"

He said the first thing that came to mind: "I think I'm going to feel like I'm unwrapping a present of my own."

………

As the light levels rose in the room, he roused to wakefulness, his hand splayed on her stomach with her spooned up against him. Once more he thought how lovely it would be to someday wake up like this every day, and he took in a deep breath before exhaling slowly.

As much as he would have like to laid there longer, it was her birthday, and that meant a well-deserved breakfast in bed. He had some bacon, that he knew, and eggs, but thought the morning special enough to warrant something she would really enjoy. He dressed then slipped out for the market.

When she woke, he sat on the bedside with a tray; coffee, breakfast, and as a special surprise for her: a red rose.

"Oh," she said, waking, pushing herself up on an elbow, smiling sleepily. "What's this?"

"Happy birthday, my love," he said.

She sat up—still wearing the top part of her negligee set—and stared at the plate. "What did you bring us?

"_Pain au chocolat_," he said, "also known as chocolate croissant. Became quite fond of them in France."

"Where's the chocolate?"

He laughed. "Have a taste."

She smiled, reaching for the warmed pastry, picking it up, and gingerly biting into it. Her face lit up as she chewed then swallowed. "Oh, _my_."

"I thought you might approve."

She grinned sheepishly then had another bite, washing it down with a sip of coffee. "Where have these been hiding all of my life?"

"In the patisseries of France and the larger cities of the UK."

"Don't tease me," she said.

"I apologise," she said. "You're a woman of the world now."

"Yes," she said. "Grafton Underwood, London, Bangor. _So_ well-travelled."

"Yes, at the ripe old age of eighteen."

She giggled, eating another bite. "Wonderful start to official adulthood, I must say." Her smile faded, replaced by an expression of deep thought. "What about you? I thought you said you needed to be up early today."

"Nothing I can't miss," he said. "I'll have to go out for a little while this afternoon, have a procedural thing I'm required to attend, but I'll be back in time for supper. I'll take you out somewhere nice…"

"Can I go with you?"

He chuckled, thinking of her sitting still through the mock trial. "I think you'd be bored out of your wits, love. Besides—I never gave you your other present, and I think that'll keep you quite occupied."

Her mouth formed a small O. "Can't believe I forgot!"

He chuckled.

After finishing their breakfast, he bade her close her eyes, and he went into the closet, hefting the box up and over to the floor by her feet. He hadn't had a chance to wrap it properly, so he took a flat bed sheet from the closet and draped it over the box.

"Okay," he said. "Open your eyes."

She did, and was clearly surprised. "Mark, this is huge—I swear it's half as tall as I am. What on earth is it?"

"Open it… rather, take off the cover and find out."

Hesitantly, she crawled to the edge of the bed, got to her feet with the sheet draped around her, then reached forward for the covering. As she pulled it away, it was as if her eyes could not be trusted. "Mark. Is this what I think it is?"

"Unless you think it's something beside a computer…"

It was in fact a personal computer, a relatively new model in Apple's Macintosh line, an SE/30, blandish beige in colour, but it had the benefit of the monitor and CPU being connected in the same unit, and a graphic-driven user interface, unlike some of the other personal computers he'd seen. The monitor's screen was small and only rendered in black and white (so he was told), but it was enough for what she would need it for.

"Mark," she said. "I've heard about these. They're expensive."

"But it's perfect for you," he said. "It doesn't take up very much desk space, it has a floppy disk drive so you'll be able to take your writings to a computer lab to print them out. No more notebooks. Well, and your schoolwork, too. For papers."

"But it must have cost—"

"Bridget," he said. "I don't spend more than I can afford. Accept it gracefully."

She smiled, then chuckled. "Thank you." She turned to him and embraced him, inadvertently dropping the sheet in the process, kissing him on the lips as his hands came up to the small of her back under the teddy, bare and smooth. "I'm going to be the envy of my dorm mates." She laughed, releasing him, clapping her hands together. "Let's take it out and set it up! Please?"

Despite her newfound adult status and the state of her attire, Mark could not help but think how like a little girl on Christmas morning she seemed. "Do you think maybe you should get dressed first?"

She looked down, realising instantly that she was completely bare from the waist down, and blushed bright red from head to toe.

"Not that I don't like the view," he added wryly.

She slipped into a pair of trackie bottoms and a tee—not as revealing as the lingerie, but no less attractive on her—as he unpacked the computer from its box, setting it up on the table, then attached the keyboard and the mouse into the correct ports. He plugged it into the wall, then waited for her to return, to sit beside him, before turning on the power.

When the chime sounded indicating start up, she bounced in place again.

"I had them put in a hard drive," he said. "The largest they had was eighty megabytes, but I'm assured that should last a good long time."

She chuckled, taking in the scene, at him at the computer, at the box and the packing material.

"What is it?"

"It just struck me that you reminded me of my dad putting together my bicycle on Christmas morning."

At that he laughed out loud.

She sat, quickly found the MacWrite program, and started typing away. He smiled, then went to dress properly in order to make it to his obligation. He bent to kiss her on the head; she raised her face to receive a proper kiss.

"I'll see you later," he said. "Make yourself at home. And don't forget to call your mum."

"Mmm," she said, completely concentrating on the computer again. As he picked up his attaché and headed for the flat door, she called to him: "You also realise you'll have to drive me back to Bangor, Mark. I can't take this on the train."

He chuckled, then left the flat.

………

The practical class on trial procedure went longer than he anticipated, but so engrossed was he in it that he hardly noticed. Upon arriving home back to the flat at seven thirty in the evening, he found her eating takeaway Chinese food.

"Where did this come from?"

"The Chinese Takeaway Fairy," she said with a wink.

"I mean did you go out for it?"

"No, delivery," she said.

"Bridget," he said. "You shouldn't have done that, you all alone by yourself here."

"Mark, honestly, the delivery girl had to be let up by the concierge."

At that he had no response to offer, which was just as well, as the telephone began to ring.

"Hello, Mark Darcy speaking," he said.

"Mark! Oh my God!"

It was an hysterical Pam Jones. At once he knew what this was about, and he shot an angry look to an oblivious Bridget.

"It's all right, Mrs Jones." That got Bridget's attention, and with a look of horror she pushed herself up off of the sofa. "She made a surprise trip to visit me."

"Oh, thank God, thank God!" He heard her weeping in her relief. "Let me speak to her, will you?"

Penitently she took the receiver from Mark and brought it to her ear. "Mum, I'm so—"

She stopped talking; even Mark could hear Pam shouting at her for worrying them beyond belief. Bridget had the good grace to look mortified at forgetting to call her mum.

Finally he could hear the storm die down, and only then Bridget spoke again. "Thanks," she said quietly. "It's been nice so far. Mark had class so I've been writing. I'm so sorry, I got so involved and lost track of time…. Yes, I am. I will. Thanks. I love you too."

She spoke briefly to her father as well, reiterated her apology for forgetting to call, then hung the phone up. After she did, she failed to raise her eyes to him.

"I forgot to call them."

"I gathered." He strode away, still feeling angry at her for doing the one simple thing he'd asked her to do. "Bridget, that was really inconsiderate of you."

She glared at him. "Don't you shout at me, too. It's not like I meant to make them worry."

"I'm not shouting," he said. "I don't like shouting. And of course you didn't mean to."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" she asked huffily.

He sighed. "Nothing, love," he said. "I know you get very focused on things… perhaps in future take care of important tasks before you get lost in your focus."

She exhaled loudly. "Answer me this. Do you have to tell your mum and dad where you are every minute of the day?"

"Of course not," he said.

"What do you mean 'of course not'? Do you think you don't have to report in because you're a boy?"

"No one's asking you to report in, or telling you that you need permission to do something, Bridget," he said. "Telling someone you won't be where they think you'll be is not 'reporting in'. It's common courtesy."

"I still think boys have way more freedom than girls do," she said. "If I were a boy, would it matter as much?"

"It would to me," he said, "but then again, you wouldn't be my girlfriend if you were a boy." He stepped forward, certain her ire had cooled.

She cracked a smile at last. "If I were a boy, would you freak out if I'd ordered takeaway all on my own?"

"Only if the delivery person were always a girl," he said. He went to her, placed his hands on her shoulders. "You're so trusting and kind, I don't believe the world at large would not to try to take advantage of you."

"You mean I'm naïve," she said, frowning.

"Maybe a little," he said, knowing he was risking angering her again by saying it, "but you've lived in a very small town surrounded by people you know. That's hardly your fault."

"But I'm not stupid, Mark," she said.

"Of course not," he replied, "which is why I believe you'll learn not by experience, but by example." He embraced her, planting a kiss on her forehead. "Now, birthday girl. What would you like to do tonight?"

She looked up at him, her cherubic face looking up at him with wide-eyed innocence. _Too cherubic, too innocent_, he realised, as she answered him:

"I want to go to that nightclub," she said, her face sliding into a wicked grin. "And this time, I'm bringing my driving licence."

_Well_, he thought, coming to the conclusion that there was really no way out of this painted corner; _I do like dancing with her._

* * *

NB:

The Macintosh SE/30 ran System 6. I am most amused by this: "The Trash (or 'Wastebasket' in the British version) empties when the Finder terminates." 'Wastebasket'!! I love it! BTW, MacWrite II came included.

If you have a Mac and use the program MacTracker, you can hear what the startup chime actually sounded like.

I found a reference online suggesting that there was a pre-existing Apple UK, which leads me to conjecture that Apple Macintosh was in fact selling in the UK at this time. Entitled _Apple Marketing: The Mac is fun.' (related article on Apple's regional advertising)_, it appeared in MacWEEK, November 21, 1989, and was written by Pamela Pfiffner: "Hancock, a five-year Apple veteran whose tour of duty included Apple UK and Apple Pacific before coming to Apple USA last year…" (I can't link the article because it's only available through libraries.)


	16. Chapter 15

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~6,094.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 15_

Mark's words to her the night of her eighteenth birthday seemed to stick with him for many days, weeks, months afterwards. She was very smart, it was true, but sometimes too smart for her own good. Also, she had always had her parents (and even Mark) to keep her impulsive, spontaneous nature in check. He worried more than he let on about her learning to spread her wings in the world beyond Grafton Underwood without a hard, painful fall to terra firma. Trying new things. Meeting new men.

This fretting usually confined itself to those periods when she was more than four hours away by car. Whenever he saw her, she looked the same, behaved the same, hugged and kissed him with no less enthusiasm, and these periods with her banished his insecurities, convinced him that he was imagining things.

It was only when the distance increased between them that those insecurities dared rear their ugly heads again.

It was her last week of classes before the Easter break, and he had agreed to pick her up to bring her back to Grafton Underwood for the holiday; he would stay in the cottage, she with her parents, though in all honesty she'd just end up spending most of her time with him, anyway.

Due to the upcoming holiday, Mark found himself released of all obligation sooner rather than later, and to surprise her he decided to head to Bangor a day sooner than originally anticipated. He arrived at about ten, arranged a hotel room, then went to the campus, hoping upon hope to find Bridget was still awake. The students in her residence hall all knew him to be Bridget's boyfriend; usually they smirked and waved, but this night with its bewildering yet distinctly party atmosphere, they all seemed a little puzzled, even… well, he wasn't sure, but they almost looked shocked.

He went to her door, which sat ajar, and rapped firmly. No answer. "Anyone home?" he called, even in his annoyance that she would be careless enough to leave the door flung wide.

There was a scramble and suddenly her roommate Magda appeared, with that same shocked look on her face. Magda bore a glass, and from that glass came the unmistakeable aroma of sweet, cheap wine. "Hi! Mark!" she said almost nervously, her drink sloshing a bit. In the room were three other girls (two with wine, one with a cigarette and a beer), and two boys with bottles of ale.

He furrowed his brow. "What's going on?"

"Relaxing, that's all," she said. "You're here early."

"Thought I'd surprise Bridget," he said. "Where is she?" The dormitory room was not big enough to be hiding her.

"Oh… she's around," Magda said lamely.

A dark-skinned girl, one whom he had never met before, snorted a laugh and spilled wine down her front. "She's off at The Globe with Eric and the lot of them," she said.

"Mary!" shushed Magda in what he presumed she thought was a whisper.

Mark's heart began to race, his anger building to epic proportions. He glared at Magda, whom he had always thought quite highly of. "And where would The Globe be?"

"Just off campus. Downtown," Magda said in a chastened voice.

Without further word he dashed out the door and for the stairwell, going down to the car park. If memory served, the place to which Magda referred was a quite near the hotel he'd booked. Actually, everything was quite near to everything else in Bangor; it was not that large a town.

His recollection of where the pub Magda described was accurate, and he pushed through the door. It was not terribly busy as it was a weeknight. The air was thick with smoke, but he was able to hone in on her distinctive laughter.

She was there, all right, sitting on the pub stool, dressed in a vee-neck tee shirt and jeans, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders and sweeping her back; she had not a glass of wine but the whole bottle in her hand, taking a deep draw at just that moment. She threw her head back in laughter and lost her balance, nearly tipping off the stool.

"Bridget!"

All eyes in the place turned to Mark; he only focused on one pair, crinkled in happiness to see him. "Mark!" she grinned lopsidedly as she got unsteadily to her feet. "Ohmygod—you're early! What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing _here_?" he asked, his voice laden with simmering fury. Her smile faded as he spoke.

"Winding down after a long week of exams," she said. "Not like this is illegal, Mark."

"Do you do this often?"

The patrons in the pub—including a pair who were snogging in a corner—began to laugh. Bridget coloured. "Not often."

"No, no," said one with obvious sarcasm. "Not every night, at least."

Everyone snorted with laughter again.

Mark was torn. He was furious enough—both by catching her in this state, and the fact that this was not the first time she'd done it—to walk out and go back to the hotel alone, but worried about leaving her with a bottle of wine in a mixed gender crowd.

"Come on, Mark," she said. "Have a drink and relax. You've had a long drive." She reached for him, but he pulled away. She looked at him in surprise.

"You're drunk," he said.

"I'm tipsy," she said. "Test today was brutal."

"I'm not talking to you in this state," he said, "in front of all of these people."

"'These people'," said a patron in a mockery of Mark's voice and accent.

"Oh, for God's sake," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm just having a little fun."

"Tomorrow's a school day," he said. "You should be in bed."

After a moment of dead silence, the entire roomful of people began to howl uproariously with laughter—not at her, at his apparent temerity to say such a thing to an adult woman.

Furious, she slammed the bottle down onto the bar. "It isn't that late, I don't have any classes in the morning, and I hardly need revise for a Creative Writing exam."

"Come with me," he said, reaching out for her arm. She pulled it away. "Bridget," he said insistently.

"No," she said. "I don't appreciate you storming in and talking to me like you're my bleedin' _myngi_." The crowd around her laughed again, cheering at her apparent direct hit, even though he had no idea what she'd just called him.

He reached out and grasped her wrist firmly, but the bartender pounded his fist down on the bar, startling him. "The lady don't want to go, she don't have to go," he said. "We don't like your type in here, coming in thinking you own the place."

The bartender was big and intimidating, and Mark was not looking for a fight, but he did not at all like the man's tone. "The only thing I care about is Bridget, thank you very much."

"Too much above us, are ya?" asked someone. "Bloody English."

It occurred to him at that moment in what their hostility was rooted, wondered momentarily why Bridget herself was not treated with such disdain, then remembered precisely from which heritage her surname stemmed.

"_I_ think," said the bartender, "that you oughta be leavin'."

He looked at Bridget, who was still looking quite defiantly at him. "If you want me to leave," he said directly to her, "I'll leave." He thought at that moment her bravado wavered a little, but she said nothing. He turned to look on the faces of the other patrons—some older, obviously born and bred in Bangor, but others clearly uni students. With a final glance in her direction, he turned and strode out the door and towards the hotel.

His thoughts were scattered. He could not focus. He couldn't, not when he didn't know what had just occurred in there. They'd certainly had disagreements over their time together, but nothing approaching a fight like this. He dared not think this was the end of everything with her—dared not think that she had grown up and apart from him, had found new people and new interests and—

"Wait! Mark!"

It was Bridget's voice, between panted breaths; he turned to see her running towards him, hair streaming out behind her. He stopped and as she drew nearer, as she came to a stop, he saw her eyes shining, her expression one of clear conflict.

"Look, I—" she said, then stopped.

"Yes?" he said, still residually angry. "Have your friends decided the damned snooty English bastard's all right, after all?"

She sighed. "I'm sorry about that." She paused as if to collect her thoughts. "You have to realise, though, that you're not exactly not dispelling their misconceptions."

He sighed loudly.

"I didn't mention nights out at the pub—which I do _not_ do that frequently—to you because I knew you'd have this exact reaction." Her eyes did not waver from him. "I'm allowed to be a grown-up, Mark."

"When was the last party you went to?"

She pursed her lips. "Tuesday. But only because—"

"And what time did you come in? Two, three in the morning?"

He knew from her silence that it was probably closer to four.

"I suspected as much."

They stood there in silence, rooted to the spot, for longer than was comfortable. Finally she sighed, looked away, then turned and walked across the street.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to my room," she called over her shoulder.

"You're not walking."

She laughed mirthlessly. "I walk all the time. Some of us don't have cars."

He stalked after her. "Bridget, don't be ridiculous," he said, reaching for her arm and spinning her around. She looked shocked.

"_Don't_ call me 'ridiculous'," she said angrily.

He ran his hand over his face, exhaling loudly. This had escalated way out of control. "Bridget," he said in a far calmer tone. "I only came early to surprise you. I didn't mean to—" He stopped short, because he did not know exactly how to finish his sentence.

She, however, seemed to have the right words in mind.

"Didn't mean to embarrass me in front of my friends, make me feel two inches high?" Her emotions were running so high she now had tears streaming down her cheeks. "Well, congratulations, Mark Darcy. You did a bang-up job of it all the same." Clearly flustered and frustrated, she wiped at her face, seemingly annoyed that her eyes would betray her in such a way. "God. I shudder to think what you said to my friends."

He looked down. He would never apologise for caring about her so much, but he had not handled things at all well that night. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Please come back to the room with me."

Her lower lip also betrayed her, quivering quite out of her control. She pulled it between her teeth.

"You're right," he went on; "you are eighteen, but being eighteen in and of itself does not make one an adult." He stopped again, realising his tone had gone angry once more. Calming himself, he continued. "My concern for you doesn't disappear because you've hit a certain age. Now that you're away from home, so much is new and different to you, Bridget; you're faced with decisions you've never needed to make before, in all kinds of new situations and meeting all kinds of new people…" He drifted off, not saying what he was really thinking: meeting new boys.

She stared at him thoughtfully. "Ahhh," she said sombrely. Her anger seemed to dissipate in an instant. "I remember what this feels like."

"What?"

"To think you might meet someone better, more exciting, now that you're out of the gilded cage that is Grafton Underwood." She went to him and reached to take his hand. "I don't want anyone else, Mark. I thought I'd made that perfectly clear."

Even though he was relieved to hear it, he shook his head. "This is about more than that," he said quietly, squeezing her hand gently, pulling her close to him. "Your parents love you, of that I have no doubt, but I don't think either of them have ever seen the potential in you that I've seen. I've read your stories. I've talked to you more hours than I can count. You're one of the most innately intelligent people I know, and the thought even the remotest possibility of your squandering the opportunity to expand your talents just to prove that you're not a child makes me, yes, a little bit angry. Whatever else I want from you, from us, from the relationship we have, pales in comparison to wanting you to make the right choices, the _best_ choices for your future."

At the conclusion of his speaking, the silence of the night air seemed to resound; she looked at him almost as if seeing him for the first time. She blinked rapidly, then took him in her arms, holding him tight.

"An injustice must be settled," she said in a very low tone after some minutes. "I can't have my favourite pub telling the person dearest to me in the whole world to sod off."

He chuckled, glad to have the tension broken.

"I love you, Mark," she added. "Don't ever doubt that."

He pulled back, took her face in his hands and kissed her, conveying his love for her without words, then reached to take her hand and smiled.

"Perhaps proper introductions are in order," he said. She grinned.

They went back into the pub and when the bartender began to object, Bridget stood up for him fiercely; some of her argument was even in Welsh, which baffled him but only reinforced his belief that she only need be immersed in a language to learn it. In the end, the bartender and Mark shook hands, and Mark bought a round of ale for everyone in the place. Upon finishing his pint (and Bridget the very last bits of her wine) they left hand in hand feeling quite happy if a little bit tiddly.

He was glad he did not have to drive back. He was also glad that the slight buzz from the beer did not affect their ability or desire to properly make up after their argument.

Lying in bed, she on his shoulder, he combed his fingers through her long hair, splaying it out over him like a silken blanket. "What was it that you called me before, anyway?" he asked.

"What?" she asked.

"Back in the pub. You likened me to a bleedin'… something."

"Oh," she said. "_Myngi_. Sorry."

"What does that mean?"

"'Granny'," she admitted sheepishly.

"I didn't even get the dignity of being a grand_father_," he lamented teasingly.

"I'm sorry."

He leaned down and kissed her again. "I forgive you."

She giggled. "I'm glad."

He looked into her eyes; felt himself become thoughtful, his gaze become penetrating. "Bridget," he began, tone suddenly serious. "Tell me the truth about your nightly escapades."

"There is no nightly—"

"You called that place your favourite pub," he reminded, his hand drifting over to pat her bottom affectionately.

She sighed. "Sometimes I hate that you know me so well."

She did confess to going out to the pub more frequently than previously admitted; with tender kisses to his mouth she promised to ease up with her newfound freedom (coupled with the legal ability to do so) and go to the pub less frequently.

"Mark," she began, long after he believed her to be asleep, "can I ask you something?" Her voice, the very question was asked with such timidity that he wondered if another woman had spontaneously appeared in his arms.

"Always," he replied.

"Do you really think so?" she continued in a similar vein. "Think I'm talented? And not just patting my head and boosting my ego?"

"I really think so," he replied, sweeping his hand over her skin. "I always enjoy what you send to me. I look forward to reading something besides legal documents."

She pushed herself up to look at him. "But you really think it's good?"

"Your writing always draws me in," he said. "It makes me laugh, it makes me emotional, it makes me eager to get to the end and simultaneously angry when I do, because then it's over."

"So long as you're not just humouring me," she said. "Or encouraging me like an awkward teenager to continue with ballet lessons when it's obvious I'm never going to be a prima ballerina."

"I'm not just humouring you," he said. "Other things, yes, but not humouring you."

At that she laughed and reached to kiss him once more, inevitably leading to more activities that were decidedly not humouring.

………

To absolutely no one's surprise, Mark passed the Bar vocational and was practically being fought over for the year of pupillage at Inns of Court. From the offers received, he was able to take a pupillage with a barrister in the Middle Temple just as he'd always hoped, and that would be starting in the autumn.

It was exciting and terrifying to be on the last leg of an academic career and transitioning into the legal career he'd always hoped to have. It was a brand new decade, the summer of 1990; he was twenty-two, Bridget, eighteen. He thought it would be a great time for an extended holiday with her—after school, before the reality of practising law—and he thought the perfect thing to do would be to travel through Europe.

"Mark," she said over supper in the London flat near the start of the summer break, "I can't afford a holiday through Europe."

"I can," he said, "and I want you with me."

She smiled, but it was very tentative. "You're always doing that though," she said. "Paying my way."

"I want you with me a lot."

She looked down demurely, but he saw her smile widening. "I'd like that a lot," she said.

"It'll take a little time to plan," he said. "I thought it would be nice to begin in France, work our way down, perhaps show you Marseilles…. Hm."

"What?" asked Bridget.

"I should have begun planning this a long time ago," he said ruefully.

"Oh, that's bollocks," she said. "We can just _go_."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, pack up some things, strike out and explore."

He stared at her; it must have been a rather blank look because she burst out laughing. "It'll be fun," she said. "When can we go?"

They pulled out a calendar and decided to begin their journey the first of July, which was just a week away. Consulting a map, they plotted out a tentative route; the more they talked about it, the more excited they'd both become.

Her parents could not stop her from going, but they had their concerns, particularly her mother. "I know he'll look after you well," she said in one of her loud whispers that she presumed he could not hear, "but keep to separate beds, Bridget, or he'll never want to marry you."

He could feel her embarrassment from their distance apart. He looked at her just as she looked at him, and offered her a reassuring smile. He had given a lot of thought to the future, particularly his future with her, and he knew exactly what he wanted: to marry her, shared bed or not. It couldn't happen yet, though; she needed to finish school, and he needed to establish himself in his career. Finding her feet in her career could come once they were both living together in London.

Early Sunday morning on the first of July, Mark came to pick her up to begin their holiday. Her parents were there to see her off. Bridget looked a little weary, but excited.

She kissed her mother goodbye on the cheek, then went to hug her father. "Bridget," said Colin Jones, then kissed her cheek, "you've done so well your first year at uni that your mother and I… wanted to help cover your expenses for your trip."

"Oh," she said as he pressed what looked to be a credit card into her hand.

He leaned in and said something quiet into her ear; she blinked in surprise, then threw her arms around him, kissing his cheek again. She turned to hug and kiss her mum once more.

"We should be off," she then said, looking to Mark with glossy eyes. Mark shook Mr Jones' hand, then turned to do the same to Mrs Jones, except she pulled him into a hug, instead.

"Have a nice time," she said, "and keep her safe."

"You can count on me," he said.

"Always have," added Colin Jones.

As they drove off, Mark asked, "What did your father say to you?"

"It's a new bank card," she said. "They've given it four hundred pounds."

He smiled. That was very kind of them, but it was his intention that his gift to her be that she need not spend a single pound of it.

………

The first day's travel would be as far as Paris, they had decided in advance. Despite her wanting things to be very spontaneous, he had booked a room in advance in the heart of Paris. They drove to Dover, took a ferry across to Calais, and were in the city before suppertime.

"Welcome to Paris," said the concierge upon their arrival to the upscale hotel. "Is this your first time?"

"Yes," Bridget said enthusiastically. She had such a look of awe and wonder he wished he could memorise it for all time. "It's just beautiful here. Everything I've ever imagined."

The concierge smiled politely as a bellboy appeared as if by magic. "Jean-Claude will show you to your room now."

"_Merci_," said Mark, as Jean-Claude reached for their suitcases.

"Have a pleasant stay," said the concierge. "We hope it is a most memorable honeymoon."

At that Bridget looked to Mark, amused and befuddled at the same time. "Thank you," she said.

As they entered their room, Bridget gasped at the vista before her, gravitating at once towards the window. "It's like a picture postcard! Amazing!"

He chuckled as Jean-Claude departed. Mark then joined her at the window, slipping a hand around her waist and kissing her on the top of the head.

"Honeymoon, hm?" she asked.

"I said nothing of the kind," he assured. "It's not my fault they made assumptions." She did not need to know that he asked for the nicest suite available; that that suite happened to be the honeymoon suite had made no difference to him.

She chuckled. "It's really nice though, being here with you, in this amazing room in this amazing city—" She turned suddenly to face him. "What do you want to do first?"

He chuckled. "Freshen up and find something to eat. It's been a long time since we had lunch in Dover."

A sharp knock interrupted their thoughts. Mark went to answer it. "_Monsieur, madame_," said the young lady pushing a tray bearing a bottle of champagne, two flutes, and a huge bowl of beautifully ripe red strawberries, each having been individually dipped in dark chocolate. "Compliments of the house."

"Thank you," he said. Just as quickly she left, closing the door behind him.

"Ask and ye shall receive," Bridget said, going to the tray and plucking a strawberry up in her fingers.

"Wait," he said, taking her wrist, then taking the strawberry from her. He held it in front of her mouth, and with a grin, she took a big bite.

"Oh _God_, that's good," she said, closing her eyes as she chewed. She picked up another and held it up for him. "Try one."

He went to bite but she pulled it away; he tried a second time and, giggling, she did it again. "Bridget," he said sternly.

"You're no fun," she teased as she allowed him his strawberry.

It was incredibly delicious. After swallowing, he replied, "I'm no fun?"

"Yes," she said. "You haven't even opened the champagne yet."

"Bridget, it's not even five in the afternoon."

"But we're newlyweds," she said. "We're expected to drink this now."

He chuckled. "Your logic is infallible," he said.

"We can go out for a proper dinner later," she said.

Reluctantly he agreed, then proceeded to pop open the bottle. After pouring their flutes, he raised his glass in toast. "To the start of a great adventure with the love of my life and my very best friend."

"Hear, hear." She held up her glass, clinked it against his, and sipped from it. "Wow. This is good."

"We _are_ in France, darling."

She smiled, sipping again. "True."

He fed her more strawberries; she fed him some too; and they both had additional flutes of champagne until the bottle was gone. Perhaps it was inevitable, with the combination of chocolate-covered strawberries, champagne, and being in The City of Light, that they went from giggling and kissing to passionate lovemaking on the grandly ornate king-sized bed. The image of her lying naked on the bed, eyes closed, hair fanned out around her, lips in a satisfied smile, he knew was one that would stay etched in his memory for the rest of his life.

"Well, here I go disappointing my mother already," she said, not opening her eyes. "I forgot to remind you about separate beds."

At this he laughed out loud, then turned to kiss her again.

He supposed they could begin their exploration of Paris in the morning. The hotel, after all, had an exquisite kitchen and room service delivery.

………

Seeing Paris with Bridget was like seeing it again for the first time; even visits to the usual places of interest (like Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, strolling the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe, and an entire day at the Louvre), he managed to forget they were surrounded with tourists and only saw the beauty of where they were, heard her observations and commentary, watched her enjoying the newness of it all… and loved every moment of their stay. She took copious amounts of photos; he knew their holiday would be well documented.

"We could spent months here and still not see everything," she said after about a week. "I suppose we ought to keep going."

He knew she was right, but loathed to leave this beautiful place, this magical time with her.

"We could always come back sometime," she said, seeming to sense the need to cheer him. It worked.

They drove southwest, reaching Bordeaux by nightfall, and found a little hotel to stay in. It was a far cry from their suite in Paris, but no less lovely in its hominess and warmth, particularly since she was there with him. They spent a day or so there, taking in the scenery and local culture (and acquiring some wine for his parents), before moving along south towards Madrid, a beautiful city he had never been to, and was able to share in the discovery of its wonders alongside her.

They then went northeastward to Barcelona. He thought it would be a shame to visit the city and not take in some of the world-renowned opera; they went shopping for appropriate eveningwear and Mark booked a private box for the night. Bridget looked stunning in a long shimmery white satin dress, her hair pinned up elegantly, wearing the highest heels he had ever seen her wear.

The performance happened to be _Carmen_, one opera she had listened to but had never seen. Almost immediately after the performance began, she leaned into him, running her fingers over the fabric of his trousers. "Mark," she whispered, her breath hot on his cheek, "I want you to make love to me."

He looked to her as if she had gone mad. She clearly meant at that very moment.

"I know what's coming up," she went on. "'Habanera'. Bloody hot, that song."

"Bridget," he managed. Nothing could have been more inappropriate, but with the feel of her fingers on the front of his trousers, slipping down the zip then tugging them down, he could offer no protest.

He thanked God for the private booth, for the darkness of the theatre, for his black suit, for the thick red velvet curtains ensconcing the walls of their box, and for the volume of the orchestra as he rose, took her hand, and kissed her, lifted her dress and pressed her up against said red velvet. He quickly discovered she had not worn any pants, which drove him completely wild, escalated his arousal and their coupling; she very enthusiastically encouraged each of them towards climax. He felt ultimately that this straying into these forbidden depths was somehow his own fault, because everything she knew about sex and intimacy she had learned from being with him.

Even as the music swelled during the incredibly sexy piece, he bit on his lower lip to keep from making too much noise as continued to drive up into her, as he came. He saw she had to similarly restrain herself before she rested her cheek against his, panting for air and sighing happily as she lowered her feet to the ground.

"You are too wicked for words for someone as sweet and innocent as you are," he said, kissing her cheek.

"Mark, you should know better than anyone I haven't been sweet and innocent in a very long time," she murmured; "after all, you stole my cherry quite some time ago." She then kissed him rather passionately again, threatening to start their lovemaking all over.

It was the rousing applause of the people in the theatre that put the brakes on round two; she pecked him on the lips, musing naughtily as to whether or not the applause was for them, then slipped back into her seat. He straightened his suit, fixed the zip on his trousers; as he sat beside her again she reached her hand up to comb her fingers through his tousled hair. She mouthed the words _I love you_ with a smile. He said the same in return.

No matter what she said or did, she would always be sweet and innocent to him.

After the show, Bridget asked someone to take their photo with her camera as they stood in front of the opera house. As he posed for the picture, his hand on her waist, she made to take a deep bow, as if she was herself on the stage. He laughed; he should have expected nothing less. He knew that looking at this photo at some future date would only prompt him to think not of the magnificent performance they had caught that night, but that an ever-playful Bridget had no pants on under that gorgeous dress of hers.

………

From Barcelona it was on to Marseille, and Bridget loved it there as much as he thought she might. They visited mates of his from his stay nearly four years previous and they and Bridget got along quite well.

"Whatever happened to your friend?" asked Thierry. "The one who got very drunk almost every night?"

He had to have meant Daniel. "He moved to New York City," said Mark. "Got an offer that was too good to refuse."

"Ah," Thierry said. "I bet he liked your Bridget, no?"

"I never gave him a chance to find out," said Mark with a smile.

After spending a few days in Marseilles, and they were on their way to Italy—specifically, the northern cities of Genoa, Turin and Milan—before heading north into Switzerland. She pouted and insisted they really needed to come back to Italy sometime to visit the rest, to see the grandeur of Venice and Florence, and particularly she wanted to see Rome. However, they were already five weeks into their holiday; they needed to start heading back towards home.

"I have the Alps to circumnavigate yet," he reminded, as thus far he had done all of the driving.

Once through the mountains, and after a night in Zurich, they were heading into Germany. Mark had a headache he could not shake, and since the route from Zurich to Frankfurt seemed straightforward, he allowed Bridget to take the wheel.

He woke when he realised they were no longer moving, when he heard Bridget saying his name nervously. It was twilight and they were not on a main highway, not that he could tell.

"What? What is it?"

"I… I think we're lost."

Of the languages of western Europe, German was the one with which he was least familiar. He pulled out the map, struggled to find road signs, drove in circles for what felt like hours, until finally he found a little hotel. He figured it would do for the night. The woman at the desk thankfully spoke enough English to rent them a room.

Bridget was disconsolate. "You gave me one simple task to do, and I blew it."

"It's all right," he said. "We'll find out where we are tomorrow, and we'll be on our way."

"There was a really confusing interchange back there," she continued. "I thought I'd picked the right one."

He pulled her into his arms. "Don't worry about it," he said softly.

Lying in bed that night, he could only marvel that they'd made a circuit of Europe, had spent nearly every moment of every day together during this holiday, and they were not ready to murder one another while the other was sleeping. It was not as if he had expected things to disintegrate during their holiday, but it was nice they hadn't, all the same.

"Mark?" she asked quietly. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, love," he said. "Everything all right?"

"Mmm, yes," she said. "I was just thinking… and wondering."

"Wondering about what?"

"If you ever think about… the future."

It always seemed easier to talk about the more difficult subjects in the quiet and dark of night, when all one had to do speak as if into nothingness, and listen to the person with whom one was talking. "Yes," he answered quietly. "All the time."

"What do you think about?"

"Living in London," he said. "Practising the law. And you."

She did not say anything right away. He turned from his back to face her, saw in the meagre light that she was looking back at him.

"It's impossible for me to think of my future without you in it," he said.

"As impossible as it is for me to think of my past without you in it," she replied.

He smiled, brushing hair from her face. "What do you think about?"

This was something she had clearly been pondering for a long time, but did not know how to verbalise. "It's hard," she said at last, "because my mum doesn't understand why I'm even bothering with university, because obviously I'm supposed to just marry you—and part of me is irritated that she thinks this way in this day and age… and part of me agrees with her because… yeah. I can't imagine what life would be like without you."

"I've always said that school is absolutely non-negotiable."

"I know, Mark."

"I'll still be here when you're done with school. I'll still want to marry you."

She smiled tenderly, putting her hand over his as he caressed her cheek. "Yes," she said.

"What?"

"I'm saying 'yes' to your someday-proposal," she said, turning her head to plant a kiss in his palm. "For a someday-wedding."

He chuckled, then lowered himself to kiss her. It was not as if there was any alternative in his mind—he was always promised to her in his heart and soul. It was good, though, to lay their path a little more firmly down, to bring it more clearly into focus.

He pulled her into his arms, held her tight, kissed the hair at her temple. It was not long before she fell asleep. He was as happy and as confident about his future as he had ever been; school was over and the pupillage a formality because no one, not even he, thought he wouldn't be called to the Bar at its conclusion; and he'd just had the best weeks of his life with a woman who was indeed his best friend as well as his love.

Nothing would ever take this memory from him. Nothing.


	17. Chapter 16

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,661.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 16_

For all of her wailing and moaning about having to attend university in far off Wales and not somewhere like Oxford or Cambridge, Bridget and Bangor ended up being a perfect fit. She flourished in that environment, became well-known on campus for her writing and her passionate opinions on literature. She still continued to send Mark copies of her papers and her essays, and he continued to be enormously proud of her.

His pupillage had been difficult, but as usual he had risen to the occasion and had himself thrived under the pressures of legal practise, remaining cool and collected in even the most difficult of circumstances. He still made the regular drive to Bangor; Bridget and Magda had continued to room together, though had moved into a suite with separate bedrooms and a bath, thus taking to a hotel for the weekend was no longer necessary.

In the spring of 1991 he was called to the Middle Temple as a bona fide barrister. The only downside of the day was that Bridget could not be by his side as he was. She had exams and needed the time to revise.

His office was established, met his partners in chambers (among them his old mate Jeremy) and was looking forward to begin practising law.

He was also counting down the months until Bridget could join him.

………

Bridget's birthday that year was a milestone of sorts; she was finally leaving her teens behind, and to celebrate he took her up a little further north in Wales to the island of Anglesey, to a small coastal town called Beaumaris. They checked in to a lovely bed and breakfast—where their room was not so much a room as a suite—then visited the castle there, strolled the Victorian pier, and had dinner. The owners of the bed and breakfast went out of their way to make a special supper and birthday cake for her. To Bridget's delight she learned that there would be a bonfire and fireworks display that very night, on her birthday itself.

"We must go," she declared, "if they're going to go through so much trouble just for my birthday."

She may have been twenty now, but he knew some things would never change.

………

"Mark, we have a problem."

It was just before the start of the Christmas break during her third year at Bangor when she phoned him.

"What kind of problem?"

"My roommate, Magda. She's just broken up with her boyfriend, and she's really worked up over it. She's spending some time with me before going to her parents."

"Her parents are where?"

"In London," she said. "So I can't come to London as soon as I wanted to."

He cradled the receiver with his hand. "You can ride down with her, then back to Grafton Underwood with me."

"Oh," she said. "That'd be nice… except…"

"Except what?"

"Well," she said, drawing the word out. "I know you like Magda and all, but I was going to spend some time with her here, too."

He was confused. "I thought she liked me."

"She does, she does," Bridget said hastily. "But I thought with you and I… as _happy_ as we are… she might feel even more down."

It was very like her to put her friends above herself.

"Unless…" she continued.

"'Unless' what?" he asked, immediately suspicious.

"Well, unless you have a friend or something that might be keen to cheer up a broken-hearted redhead."

Mark chuckled and was about to tell her not to be such a little matchmaker when it occurred to him that his friend and now partner in chambers could himself use a little distraction, and the man did like redheads. "You're on, my love."

………

He told Jeremy to meet him at The George for lunch, and that he would at long last get to meet Bridget. Jeremy was eager to do so as he'd heard so much about her. After ales were poured and placed on the table before them, Jeremy sat back in his chair and sighed.

"What's it been now, three years with Bridget?"

"A little more than four, actually," Mark said with a smile.

"But she's so young."

"We grew up together," Mark explained. "We had a head start."

Jeremy smiled and offered his pint up in a sort-of toast-salute, but he looked a little depressed. He must have noticed Mark noticing because he explained, "I have not been so lucky with the ladies, my friend."

Mark felt a little devious. "Bridget's bringing a friend. Maybe you'll get on."

"Mark." He pursed his lips. "Please tell me this is not a setup."

Mark did not get a chance to say one way or another, because at that moment Bridget and Magda arrived, and Mark stood to embrace and kiss his girlfriend. "And Bridget, this is my friend and partner in chambers, Jeremy. Jeremy, this is Bridget."

"Hi," she said, looking gorgeous with her hair down and a knit cap upon her head. She extended her hand for a shake, then started to slip out of her winter jacket. "It's very nice to meet you at last," she continued, taking a seat by Mark.

"I could say the same," Jeremy said with a friendly smile.

Mark cleared his throat, prompting Bridget to say, "And this is my friend Magda. She's my roommate."

Magda was not smiling. She did not look at all pleased to be there. "Hello," she said coolly.

"Hi," Jeremy returned, his own bright expression fading very quickly.

"Jeremy's a barrister," said Bridget in an attempt to spur conversation.

"Yes," Magda said drolly. "I gathered that."

"And what do you do?" Mark prompted.

"I'm a student, aren't I?" she said, her temper terribly short. "I'll be graduating in the spring. Moving to London. Hope to get on with an investment bank here. At least that was my plan before—" She stopped short, her eyes welling with tears. "Well. No matter. I can still come to London if I like."

"Yes you can," said Bridget supportively. Jeremy only looked confused.

They ordered lunch and some cider for the ladies; Mark and Bridget tried valiantly to keep the sagging conversation aloft, but it seemed a lost cause. Magda was clearly not interested in anyone but her ex, and Jeremy seemed to resent being set up in the first place. In the end, Mark paid the tab and they all rose to leave. Bridget kissed Mark and said, "I'll just take the Tube with her back to her parents, then—"

"Where do your parents live?" asked Jeremy unexpectedly.

"Mayfair," said Magda.

"Why don't you ride with me?" he said. "I have a flat in West Kensington. No point in Bridget making the trip all the way to Mayfair only to double back to Trafalgar."

She eyed him suspiciously, then looked to Bridget, then Mark.

"He doesn't bite, I promise," said Mark.

"Fine," she said, exhaling loudly. "That's fine."

Bridget hugged her friend and told her she'd call soon, and with that Jeremy and Magda left.

Bridget sighed resignedly. "As soon as I told her you were bringing your friend she got so defensive and irritated."

"Jeremy did the same."

"And I really do think they'd like each other, given the chance. Ugh. I am never playing matchmaker again."

………

It had taken a little time, but Mark felt he was finally getting the hang of the working day, preparing hours in advance of court, court procedure itself, and all of the other things he'd learned in the practise and defence of the law. What took him some getting used to were things not brought up in classroom, or even in pupillage, but for the most part were outside the courtroom. The social circle he now found himself in was a society of appearances; it was less about the profession, though, and more about the level of wealth of the players. The younger barristers were trying hard to make a name for themselves and project confidence and capability by dressing in expensive suits and escorting tight-lipped, old-money girlfriends to the social occasions he found himself invited to. The more seasoned barristers were a cynical bunch, sporting ageing but equally well-moneyed wives on their arms, while having back-room conversations about their latest bit of totty. Female barristers were rarer than he might have imagined in this day and age, but even they were not immune to the need to project an image; in fact, in some ways they were worse, trying so hard to stand out in a male-dominated field.

Mark felt grateful to truly love his work, and to have the anchor that was Bridget in his life.

………

The plan was to stay in London for a few days before heading back to Grafton Underwood for Christmas, and as those days ticked away, Bridget became increasingly worried. "You'd be worried too if you couldn't reach your suicidally depressed friend, wouldn't you?" she said. "Are you sure Jeremy's not a serial killer in disguise?"

"Pretty sure," he said wryly, though could not help but think of the recently executed former law student and serial killer Ted Bundy and the fact that he had not run across Jeremy in chambers since that day. "Why don't I ring him up and see what happened after they left the George?"

"Please, Mark," said Bridget.

The phone rang three or four times before it was answered on the other end. It was not Jeremy's voice doing the talking. "Hello."

Mark did not speak for a moment; he was too stunned to do so. "Magda?" His saying her friend's name caught Bridget's attention, and her mouth dropped open in shock. "Is that you?"

"Who is—Mark?"

"Yes," he said. "Magda, Bridget's been—"

Bridget tackled the phone out of Mark's hand. "Magda, what on earth… I've been worried sick about you! What happened, what's going on?" She was silent as she listened, raising her eyes to look at Mark. The longer Magda talked—he could only hear the excited, chirpy tone of her voice, not the words themselves—the greater Bridget's smile grew. Bridget herself could only alternate with "Really?" or "Oh my God!"

By the end of the telephone conversation, Bridget was looking happy and smug. After returning the phone to its cradle, she explained, "They started to talk on the way back to Mayfair and instead of going home, they went out to coffee, then to dinner, then…" She drifted off, smiling goofily.

"I take it she is no longer suicidally depressed?" Mark asked.

She nodded. "Inseparable ever since. Heh. I was right all along."

He was not sure Bridget needed that kind of reinforcement.

………

"Mark, old boy, come out for a drink with us."

Asking him was one of the partners, Horatio, who was a few years older than Mark, and Mark had already refused twice before; Bridget was deep in studies at uni as it was the middle of the week in the middle of the term, so there was no using her for an excuse.

He might as well make an appearance.

"Sure. Let me get my things."

They ended up in the bar at The Savoy, and the lot of them took up a table, seven barristers in total; each of them ordered an ale and sat back in their seats to take a drink. They talked about work at first, lulling Mark into complacency; this wasn't nearly as bad as he'd imagined it to be.

And then Michael, another of the seasoned partners, pointed and spoke up.

"There's a fine bird for catching."

She was very attractive, that could not be denied; brassy red hair done in ringlets and tousled artfully around her shoulders; she wore a designer dress, high heels and hosiery, and had a clutch bag under her arm. She seemed to sense their scrutiny and she turned to throw a glance at their table, smiling before looking back to her friends.

"What do you say, Mark? She your type?"

Mark blinked. "I have a girlfriend."

The others burst out laughing. "How is that a problem?" asked Michael. "So do I. So do we all, I believe."

"It's harmless," said Horatio. "Power's an aphrodisiac to a woman."

"Thank God," someone piped up, "or you'd never get any at all." Laughter circled the table.

"So what is your type?" said Horatio. "What about this girlfriend of yours? What kind of money is she from?"

He was starting to see that to some of them, there were only two kinds of women: the ones with connections and wealth that you marry and breed with, and the ones you have fun with, pick up in bars and have a quickie with in a bathroom stall. "She's blonde, blue-eyed, and presently revising for classes tomorrow," Mark said.

"School?" Horatio asked in astonishment. "She's still in school?"

"Yes," he said. "University. In Wales."

Laughter roared again. "You can't even go home and rut her if you want to?"

"How would she ever know if you took _that_ little lovely off to a back corner?"

They continued their harassing disapproval, but quickly forgot him when the tall flame-haired beauty came near to their table. "Can I help you with something?" she asked, smirking, knowing they were all looking at her with unbridled lust, but her eyes were set on Richard, with his sandy-blond hair and green eyes.

"I sure hope so," said Richard, his wedding band gleaming on his fourth finger. It literally made Mark feel sick to his stomach. "Buy you a drink?"

"Mmm, I'd love a drink," she said as he rose to his feet. They walked to the bar, his hand possessively on her arse.

"Oh, Mark, lighten up," said Michael, leaning into Mark and speaking in a confidential tone, assuredly seeing the disgust on Mark's face. "It's nothing. She knows it, he knows it. His wife is the most frigid cow I've ever met. The poor man needs some relief."

Mark said nothing in response. He vowed only to finish his ale then make excuses for returning to his flat. He needed to phone Bridget, needed to hear her voice, needed talk about trivial matters, needed for her to make him laugh. He mostly needed assurances that there wasn't something wrong with him for thinking the woman he intended to marry should be the same woman he wanted to have fun with.

………

Bridget's third year at university was over in June, and to celebrate both that and her joining him to live in London all summer instead of with her parents, he decided to bring her to one of the most elite restaurants in all of London. He phoned her friend Magda to charge her with buying Bridget a suitable dress as a surprise; Magda, who was now living in a flat in London, was herself getting ready to start a position with a merchant bank there. Magda was all too happy to oblige.

"Don't worry about price," he said. "I'll cover it." He knew too that if Bridget knew what it cost, she'd never accept it.

Magda really outdid herself in the shopping; she found a gorgeous Valentino dress with classic lines, deep sapphire blue in colour with a matching pair of pumps, a purse and a shawl for her shoulders. "You said not to spare expense," she said with a smile as she dropped them off.

"I'll try not to have a heart attack when the bill arrives," he joked.

He drove to Bangor after work on Friday, intending on taking her and her things back to London the following day, with a quick stop in Grafton Underwood for her summer things. He was thrilled beyond measure that she would be living with him for the summer; it would be a preview of things to come after she left school. He was, however, concerned that his parents, _her_ parents, would not take their living together well.

"Bridget! Mark!" Pam Jones enthusiastically hugged her daughter, then him, beaming a bright smile up to both of them as she let them in the house. "It's so good to see you together—we don't see you nearly as much as we used to."

Mark felt very guilty all of a sudden.

"Hello, son," said Colin Jones, outstretching his hand to shake Mark's, respect evident in his expression. "Hear you're doing very well as a barrister."

"Yes," he said, smiling. Mark could only muse how much things had changed from that first timid approach of Bridget's parents to tell them of their newly discovered (or, in Mark's case, acknowledged) feelings, particularly how defensive he had been of his little girl. Now the man regularly called him 'son'.

"You'll be able to keep Bridget very comfortable there in London," said Pam.

"I intend to, yes," he said.

"Well, whatever you do," said Pam, "don't let her stay up too late, make sure she keeps her room tidy, puts her shoes in the closet, and keep after her to do her chores."

Mark could hardly believe his ears, glanced to Bridget (who looked equally astounded), then to Colin. Could it possibly be true that she was still in denial about—

"What's it going to be now? Five years?" asked Colin suddenly.

"Yes," said Mark. "Five years in September."

"Just a matter of time before we hear those ding-dong bells," said Pam, still smiling. Neither Bridget nor Mark had told either set of parents about their German-laid plans for the future, for just this reason; Pam never would have let them hear the end of it.

However, it was clear that the meaning of Colin's pointed comment about the duration of their relationship had apparently been utterly deflected by Pam's wilful denial, and Mark saw an unmistakeable smirk hovering at the corner of Colin's mouth.

"Well," piped up Bridget. "We should get my things and get going. We've got another two hours to London."

"Nonsense," said Pam dismissively. "Stay for lunch. I've invited your parents over, Mark."

He glanced to Bridget, who looked resigned. "I suppose lunch wouldn't hurt."

They packed up and brought the duffel bags of clothes (all of which were stuffed to bursting) and other miscellanea she just could not live without all summer into the back seat of the car. They had just closed the up the car when the Darcys arrived.

"Bridget," said Elaine, embracing her fondly. "You look so lovely, so grown-up since the last time I saw you." Mark felt that wave of guilt over him again; he hadn't realised quite how much he had kept her to himself when they were together.

"Oh, it hasn't been that long," she said, then turned to Mark to ask, "Easter, wasn't it?"

"Seems an age ago," said Elaine, draping her arm around Bridget's shoulder fondly as they walked into the house.

Lunch was pleasant, and the food was tasty if a little odd; Pam Jones evidently had the idea firmly in mind that fancy luncheon equalled all food in miniature form.

"Bridget," said Malcolm, indicating a plate of tiny sandwich points, "would you care for a cucumber sandwich?"

She smiled at him. "Yes, that would be very nice, thank you."

He reached forward to pick up the plate, but instead of handing it to her, he picked up five or six tiny triangles and put them on her plate.

"Thank you," she said again, somewhat perplexed.

"And how about a little fruit salad cup? You've always liked fruit salad."

"I'll pass."

"Mini chicken pasty?" he offered.

She could not stop a chuckle. "It's quite all right, Admiral Darcy. But thank you."

Conversation was not lacking in the least, but Mark found his attention turning again and again to the in-depth conversation his father and Bridget were having on the merits of different types of women's shoes. It amused and surprised him to hear him offering opinions on such a unlikely feminine subject, and listening with great interest to her impassioned defence of the kitten heel and the peep-toe pump.

"I recall your wearing tiny little baby shoes," Malcolm said, then added with a proud bluster, "and now look at you, such a pretty gal."

Bridget blushed.

"Doing very well in university, I hear," said Elaine. "I'm not surprised one bit, of course."

"Darcy men know how to pick 'em," said Malcolm with a wink.

"And someday they'll make such smart, _gorgeous_ babies," gushed Pam.

He saw Bridget turn crimson, heard her hiss "Mother!" under her breath.

"A granddaughter, oh—I can't wait! We can only hope she'll have Bridget's beautiful blue eyes," said Malcolm.

"Or a grandson," said Pam, "with Mark's handsome smile."

"You know she's always been like a daughter to us, Pam," said Elaine.

"I know," Pam replied. "To think we ever had doubts. Clearly it was meant to be."

Mark was starting to feel like he and Bridget were not even there.

After a dessert of mini chocolate tortes, Mark reminded their parents that the two of them had a bit of a drive yet and really needed to get going.

"We should do this more often," said Mark with a smile as Pam gave him a parting hug, assuaging his guilt from earlier.

"Yes!" chirped Pam. "If you can make a near-weekly drive to Bangor, you can certainly manage Grafton Underwood now and then!"

Mark could only tell himself he had opened the door that that expectation, and had no one else to blame but himself.

In the car, once pulled away from the Jones' residence, Bridget flung her arm across her eyes and sighed dramatically.

"What is it?" he asked, though he was sure he already knew.

"Just a few years ago they were all treating me like a child," she said, "and now I feel like they're expecting I'll pop one out at any given moment."

Mark burst into a laugh before he could stop it. "Bridget, a few years ago you practically _were_ a child," he said.

She lightly punched his arm. "Excuse me?"

"I only mean that the curve to maturity and adulthood is not a straight line, but rises exponentially. There's no doubt in anyone's mind that you're far along on the upswing." Hoping to raise her spirits, he added, "I for one hope for a boy, someday."

"Why?"

"Can't imagine having the strength to raise another little brat like you."

She chuckled and punched his arm again, but went quiet once more. He could see in his peripheral vision that she was facing him, undoubtedly studying him.

"Something else on your mind?" he asked.

"Mm," she said. He ventured a glance in her direction. "How excited I am to be coming to live with you for the break."

"We already know we can cohabitate in the most unpredictable of situations," he said, thinking of their European holiday. "I have no trepidations."

She was quiet again. "You didn't tell your mum, did you?"

He knew about what she was hinting: future wedding plans. "I did not."

"Hm," she said thoughtfully. "That's funny, because they seem to act like they know."

Mark chuckled. "I think they're envisioning an inevitable conclusion."

"Do you think of it that? Inevitable?"

"Yes," he said, then added, "but not because I'm being frog-marched into it unwillingly. It just feels natural. A natural progression."

She didn't respond, at least not with words; he felt her hand brush against the back of his as it rested on the console between them. No gear shift to worry about—he could hold her hand the entire time if he chose to. And he did.

She dozed off in the car as she often did, awakening only when the motor came to a stop after he'd parked by the kerb, and awakening abruptly at that. "Are we here already?"

"Mm-hm," he said. "Time to start hauling things upstairs."

The boxes and bags were small enough to be manageable with a few trips up and down to the flat. They were put in the second bedroom until she could integrate her things into the house. Mark remembered her mother talking about keeping 'her room' clean, which prompted a laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"We're already making a mess of your room," he teased.

She squinted for a moment before she remembered, too, and started to laugh. She threw herself down on the bed and sighed. "Good grief, I'm knackered after today. How did I ever get through every meal with my parents?"

"Hm," he said. "I suppose this means you don't want a surprise."

As expected, she sat straight up and stared at him. "Surprise?"

"Since you're so tired and all."

"Mark, don't tease me," she said, then smiled sweetly. "You know I like surprises."

He grinned crookedly. "I think you'll like two even more."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I should have come to live with you a lot sooner!" She bounced up and reached for his hand. "Come on, give it to me."

"Only if you're not too tired."

"Stop teasing me!" she said in a somewhat petulant tone, though she was also smiling. She knew that he wouldn't hold out for long.

"All right, to the bedroom."

She raised an eyebrow.

"It's in there," he explained.

He told her to stand in front of the bed and close her eyes. When she did, he pulled out the entire ensemble and laid the dress on the bed, put the shoes on the floor, the purse about where a hand might be, and the wrap on the other side. He then told her to open her eyes.

The first thing she did was clap her hands to her mouth. "Oh my God. That's beautiful," she whispered, walking forward to touch the fabric, then reaching to pick up the dress by its hanger. She then pulled it open to look inside, saw the label and gasped. "Oh, crikey, Mark. I can't wear this."

"Wrong size?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I can't accept something so expensive."

"Nonsense," he said. "I can't take you for dinner at Le Pont de la Tour in trackie bottoms."

The rapid blinking that resulted was his first indication of her astonishment. "Mark," she said at last.

"As I told you when I bought you your computer… I don't spend what I can't afford," he said. "I just finished work on a big case."

She still looked dubious. "Are you sure?"

"There is no one I'd rather take out than you," he said, "in case that isn't obvious by now."

She was still silent for many moments. "What time are the reservations?"

"Seven. Didn't want to make it too early in case we had travel delays."

"Which we did," she mused. She then walked up to him and took him in her arms. "You're too good to me," she murmured.

"I give you no less than you deserve," he replied.

After tightening her hug briefly, she pulled away again. "It's more than just the cost," she offered hesitantly. "I've always realised your family had more money than mine does, that you have more than I do (though it hardly matters to me), so I know, I suppose, that you can afford it. It's that I have no desire to be—" She stopped.

"Be what?" he prompted.

She looked sheepish, then answered, "Kept."

His first reaction was to ask her, "Why not?", but could only imagine the maelstrom that would have kicked up. She was and always had been of an independent spirit, not the sort that would be happy being 'kept'. He still had every intention of spoiling her shamefully for all he was worth, because what good was money without someone to spend it on?

"Wouldn't dream of it," he responded at last. "I know you too well."

She gave him a stern look, but was smirking a little. "As long as we're clear."

"Absolutely."

He freshened himself in the guest bathroom to give Bridget free rein over the master bath; he waited to put his suit on until she was near ready to go. He was thankful that she was relatively low maintenance with regards to hair and makeup. She did, however, decide to put her hair up off of her shoulders.

When she finally emerged from the bedroom wearing the ensemble, he was rendered quite speechless. With a little bit of extra shadow, some eyeliner along her top lids and a coat of mascara, she looked unbelievably beautiful; he realised with some amusement that no one could argue that childhood was long since behind her. Especially alluring was her upswept hair combined with the low vee of the neckline and her beautiful silver heart pendant.

She smiled crookedly. "So they'll let me in?"

"I dare say they'll give the place to you if you ask." He went to her, put his arms around her waist, and kissed her. "Let's go."

Mark was probably biased, but he thought she was the loveliest woman in the place, and swore he saw other men's eyes follow her as she walked past, but he tried to hold back a grin. The tables were closer together than he would have liked, but it was hardly as if his attention would be pulled away from her.

"What are you looking so smug about?" she asked as they were seated.

He told her: "You're the prettiest woman here, and you're with me."

He watched as she flushed a fetching pink. "I hardly think you're objective in this matter."

"I think the other men watching you walk by could be considered objective."

At this she did not respond, only smiled to herself as her blush deepened. "I don't usually feel this pretty."

"As someone who looks at you on a regular basis," he said, "you'll have to take me at my word when I say that you are." With that he opened his menu, pored over the possibilities, and she did the same.

"Mark," she said after a moment, "there are no prices listed." She looked utterly perplexed when he looked up to her.

He chuckled. "Most posh restaurants don't list them. It's considered in poor taste."

"How do you know what it—oh," she said, stopping abruptly. "If you have to ask, you can't afford it, right?"

"Well, not exactly."

"Mark," she said. "You know I'd be just as happy with pizza takeaway on the sofa in front of the fireplace, and an old movie in the VTR. Probably happier, as I wouldn't care a whit about getting pizza sauce on my old trackie bottoms."

He chuckled again. "Darling, sit back and let me pamper you."

She sighed, then looked down to the menu again. He would not have guessed her to be so miserable to be treated to such a nice night out. "You're going to have to help me, Mark. I haven't had French since before uni. I have no idea what I'm looking at."

"I'm sure you can make out _boeuf_ versus _poisson_ if you really try."

She pursed her lips and studied the menu.

After a moment of watching her becoming increasing frustrated, he realised it might not have been his best idea to bring her to a French restaurant. "I think," he said, "that the fourth item on the menu would be very much to your liking."

She smiled, then looked up at him. "That's what I'll have, then."

Her spirits did perk a little with the arrival of champagne and dinner, and but she seemed much more reserved than usual, uncomfortable, even sad. Perhaps it was the atmosphere; it was surely the priciest restaurant he'd ever brought her to. Perhaps she was just on her best behaviour and didn't care for it. When he asked if she wanted dessert, she demurred, which frankly surprised him.

Once finished, they emerged into the twilight; the air was warm and pleasant for an early summer night, quite perfect, but Bridget walked with her shawl around her shoulders, holding herself as if she were cold.

"Bridget," he said as they walked towards the car. "What's wrong? Did you not enjoy your dinner?"

"It was all right," she said quietly.

"Then what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Bridget," he said insistently.

As they reached the car, she turned to him with a sigh. "I felt like we were cattle lined at the trough, the tables were so close together. I especially hated the way the man at the next table kept eyeing me."

"You should have said something," he said, feeling angry at that stranger, and at himself for not noticing.

"I couldn't have told you anything in confidence," she said. "He would have heard. Which brings me to… well. I know you meant it as a compliment," she continued. "Telling me you noticed other men were admiring me. But… I don't know. It just sort of made me feel like I'm some sort of trophy or something."

Mark could not help but see in his mind's eye the stereotype about which she must have been thinking. "Darling, you know you would never—"

"I know," she said quickly. "It just makes me uncomfortable to think _they_ think I am."

He reached forward to take her hand. "Anyone who knows you, who know _us_, would never think anything of the sort."

"It's the people who don't know me—"

"Who cares about them," he said, then lowered his head to kiss her, bringing his hand up to cradle her face. "Come on. Let's go home."

She smiled. "Yes. Home. But first…"

They ended up detouring for an ice cream cone in Leicester Square. They were indeed a little overdressed, but her joy in devouring her chocolate cone more than made up for the odd looks; despite the posh dress, her delight in enjoying the ice cream reminded him so of the days when he would take her for sweets at the candy store in Grafton Underwood.

Life was just about perfect.


	18. Chapter 17

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,289.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 17_

While a welcome one, Mark was certain living together would not be a completely easy adjustment. It was true that they had essentially lived together the entirety of their European holiday, but sharing the flat, one to which he had become accustomed to living in alone, was a different story. He had quite set it up the way he liked it, had his routine. When he was with Bridget, he expected change from the norm. Now being with Bridget all the time _was_ the norm.

He had known that she was not inherently a tidy person, at least not as tidy as he was. He had to remind her quite frequently—not without some irritation thinking of her mother's comment about keeping after her to keep things clean—to put her shoes away, to remember to pull her side of the sheets up when she woke, to wipe the water off the bathroom sink after she washed up so he didn't lean forward and get his trousers wet right at fly level. There was also the habit, newly discovered to Mark, that she had of writing down in her diary the number of calories consumed as well as 'alcohol units'; he was not entirely certain what she meant by that measurement.

"What are you doing?" he asked upon discovering this habit by inadvertently reading over her shoulder.

She pulled her diary out of view. "Writing in my diary," she said.

"I meant the calorie thing."

She pursed her lips. "I feel like I need to lose some weight, and a good way to figure out—"

"Lose some weight?" he asked abruptly. "Are you mad?"

"I've developed a bit of a tummy since being in uni," she answered, "and my thighs are huge." He very nearly laughed out loud; she gave him a severe look. "I'm serious. If I don't keep it under control now, I'm destined to blimp out."

Mark thought of her parents, neither one of whom could be considered 'blimped out' by any stretch. "Bridget, don't obsess over it," he said. "Despite what the media might say, men prefer curves. Particularly this man."

She pursed her lips before allowing a smile. "You know what I'm going to say, don't you?"

"That I'm not unbiased."

"Yup." With a grin, she resumed writing.

………

She would surprise him in other ways, too. Shortly after moving in, Mark came home to find her making tea in the kitchen—and discovered her hair was shorter by a good fifteen centimetres, only now reaching to just between her shoulder blades.

"Bridget!" he said, visibly startling her; she dropped the spoon into the cup.

"Jesus, Mark, don't do that to me!" she exclaimed, spinning around, her hair floating as she did before settling around her shoulders. She held her hand over her heart. "What is wrong with you?"

"What the hell happened to your hair?"

She dropped her mouth open. "Glad to hear you like it!" she said crossly.

"I didn't mean that," he said. "It's just… gone."

"I know you like it as long as I can stand it," she said. "But I feel like a schoolgirl in a city of glamourous adults. I needed to update my look, particularly if I'm going to be entering a profession soon."

He knew she was probably right, but he was still irritated by the surprise of seeing so much gone. Refraining from reminding her that she was technically still a schoolgirl, he said, "It's not that it looks bad."

"Thanks for admitting that much," she said wryly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't always adapt well to drastic change, and to me, this is drastic."

She smiled at last, then chuckled. "You don't, it's true." She flipped her head around in a shampoo-commercial sort of way. "So, now that the initial shock is worn off, what do you think? It feels weird not to have so much weight."

Her hair was beautiful as always, and he told her so as he took her in his arms. "Why did you not tell me you were going to do this?" he asked, running his fingers through her locks, feeling like something had been amputated when he reached the bottom far too quickly.

"It was really a spur-of-the-moment decision. I went out to see Magda at lunch then on my way back I passed a salon, and I didn't have anything better to do."

"You cut your hair off… because you were bored?"

"Hey," she scolded. "Be thankful I didn't go for something all shaggy and layered and short."

"Heaven forbid," he said, placing tender kisses to her cheek, then her lips.

These little things—particularly the extremely spontaneous nature of them—frankly did make him a little mental. It was, however, an acceptable trade-off to have her there when he arrived home from work to give him a hug and a kiss, to melt away the irritation of the day, even if he did arrive home later than he wanted some nights, resulting in some disastrous cooking attempts on her part. She was annoyed that she couldn't get it right; he appreciated the effort but was just as glad to have brought home takeaway.

………

Two weeks after her arrival in London, she received word from Bangor that an internship with a publishing house in the city had come through. In celebration, he took her shopping for a few outfits. She was happy for the opportunity to make contacts in the publishing industry; he was additionally happy that she wouldn't be sitting around the flat all day bored to tears. He knew of what she was capable when she was bored.

Afterwards to properly celebrate he took her out to a place where they could not only have dinner but dance too. Granted, it was mostly up-tempo music, which always made him a little self-conscious, but he knew how much she liked it, so was happy to take her.

He did have the pleasure of dancing with her for a few slower songs; holding her close, his hands on her back, her warm breath on his neck, he forgot just a moment where he was, and began to kiss her quite deeply. When he broke away, she was smiling and flushed. "You're becoming quite bold in your old age, Mark," she commented.

He chuckled. "It's all your fault," he whispered.

After the dance, she excused herself for the ladies. He was in the process of walking back to their table, deep in thought considering after-dinner coffee, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and to his surprise saw Horatio standing there with a rather unpleasant grin.

"Mark, old boy," he said. "Nice catch."

Confused, Mark asked, "What?"

Horatio made a vague nod in the direction of the toilets. "That lovely blonde I saw you… dancing with." He winked. "See you finally decided to leave your schoolgirl at school, and enjoy some of the beauty—or beauties—of London."

When it occurred to Mark to what Horatio was referring, he tried not to laugh out loud.

"No need to be embarrassed, Mark," Horatio continued, clearly misinterpreting his expression. "This sort of place is beneath our kind, but harbour just the sort of women who want a night with a man like you or me."

"You misunderstand completely, Horatio," said Mark. "That lovely blonde _is_ my 'schoolgirl'—she's here in London for the summer, interning for Lake House Books."

Horatio did have the good grace to look completely thrown for a moment or two before clearing his throat and regaining his composure. "My mistake."

He saw Bridget weaving through the crowd back towards the table. "All my best to your _wife_," said Mark drolly. It was enough to drive Horatio away and spare Mark's having to introduce Bridget to the man.

"Who was that?" she asked as she approached, looking after Horatio's receding form, just as he was. Mark saw him embrace a woman, a young redhead who was overly made up, who was most definitely not his wife.

"No one," he said, then embraced her and kissed her. "Let's go home," he murmured.

………

As time passed, the rhythm of the life together became something comfortable and natural; as the fall term approached, he realised how much he was going to miss her, and was actually feeling somewhat desperate at the thought. He knew all too well, though, that she would just have one more year far from him, then they'd be back together for good.

They had kept their word about visiting Grafton Underwood more frequently, visiting their parents respectively. It was during one of those trips as the summer came nearer to a close that he got the opportunity to speak to his parents privately, while Bridget was with her own parents, helping to sort out the rest of the things in her childhood bedroom.

"What is it, Mark? You look so serious. Is everything okay? Is everything all right with Bridget?" His mother's unease was palpable; he had once voiced his concern to her that living together was not going to be the perfect arrangement he'd wanted it to be.

"Everything's fine. Everything's great, as a matter of fact. Pretty much perfect."

"So what is it?" his father asked.

He looked at his mother, then his father, and took one each of their hands in his. "I'd like Grandmother Darcy's ring."

Elaine Darcy blinked in confusion; taking his mother completely unawares was a rarity, so he took pleasure it in all the more, particularly as tearing up on her part was even more surprising. "Oh, _Mark_."

"The time's right," he said. "We've discussed the future, discussed marriage; we already know this is what we want. I just thought it was time to make it official. Before she goes back."

"You're both so young," Malcolm said.

"We've been together for nearly five years," he reminded. "I love her more than anything, and I don't want anyone else."

"I would ask if she feels the same," said Elaine, "but I think I already know the answer."

His mother and father hugged him—surprising considering his father was not generally a physically affectionate man—before Malcolm went up to retrieve the heirloom ring from wherever it was he kept it.

"Going to give it to her tonight?" asked Malcolm as he gave Mark the velvet box.

Mark nodded. "After I talk to Colin."

Elaine smiled. "Leaving soon?"

"Was planning on doing so as soon as I got this."

"Best be off then," said Malcolm.

The drive seemed alternately too short and too long. He wasn't exactly sure why he was so nervous; it's not like he doubted she'd accept, or doubted Colin Jones would approve. Perhaps it was just that he had never formally proposed before, or often found himself tongue-tied when it came to expressing himself personally, although with Bridget it usually was much easier.

By the time he got to the Jones', he had worked himself up into a bit of a state, one he was not proud of. Colin answered the door, which he'd counted on.

"Bridget and Pam are still spelunking the depths of the closet," he said. "You're a little early, son."

"I know," he said. "I actually wanted to talk to you."

"Me?"

"Yes, sir," he said.

Colin's expression went very thoughtful, and he furrowed his brows a little. "Mark," he said, "you haven't called me 'sir' since you were courting Bridget, before she went off to school."

Mark glanced up to the stairs to the second storey. His arrival had not been noticed. "Will you come out onto the porch with me so we can talk without being overheard?"

"Seems a very serious business, Mark," he said, though stepped out onto the porch all the same, closing the door, then looking very expectant.

"Mr Jones, sir," he began. "I would like to… ask your permission."

"Permission?"

Mentally, he chastised himself. "Not permission, so much as… for Bridget's hand."

"Hand—Oh! I'm presuming you don't mean to keep in your desk drawer." Colin chuckled, then sighed, studying Mark's face and looking almost melancholy; for a brief time Mark thought perhaps he would refuse. Softly he said, "At such a young age… my little girl getting married… but there's nothing to be done about it." He then thrust his own hand out to shake Mark's. "I wouldn't dream of denying you, son."

Mark smiled in his relief, realising most of his nervousness stemmed from anticipating Colin's reaction. "Thank you."

"I can't really say 'Welcome to the family' because you've been a part of it all along. Well, let me go get Bridget, tell her you're here… and of course you'll want to be alone."

"Swing's still up, isn't it?"

Colin grinned broadly. "Indeed it is."

They entered the house, then Colin went upstairs to fetch Bridget; as they emerged and headed down the stairs—Mark thought with some amusement how many times he'd watched her descend those stairs—he heard Colin telling her that supper would be done fairly soon if she wanted to join them. "You and Mark, of course."

"That'd be fine," he said; they were staying the night in the cottage. "We'll take a little walk or something. What do you say?"

She smiled. "Yeah, sure. It's a nice evening."

They walked; he gently guided them to where he knew the swing hung. "Oh, gosh," she said. "I haven't been back here in so long. Let's have a swing, shall we?"

It was usually best to let her think the idea was her own.

They sat, his arm around her shoulders, she leaning on his, enjoying the early evening in comfortable silence when Mark decided he could wait to ask no longer.

"Bridget," he said. "There's a question I've been meaning to ask you."

"Oh?" she asked from her position on his shoulder.

"Mm-hmm," he replied. "I know you remember Germany."

She chuckled. "Yeah. That day I got us so lost, but it ended up being such a happy accident. One of the best days of the whole trip."

"It was," he said. "So. I have something for you."

"Is there a question in there?"

"Yes." He dug into his pocket for the little velvet box, flipped it open with his thumb. "We talked about our plans for the future that serendipitous night. I wanted to ask you if you would do me the honour of… making those plans official." He then brought the box around to where she could see it.

This spurred her to action; she sat up, took the box, looking at the ring as if it were the first flame humanity had ever produced. "Mark, what's this?" she asked.

"Grandmother Darcy's engagement ring."

"Oh, Mark," she said. She studied it for some time without a word, until finally she lowered the box and raised her eyes to meet his. "No."

He was certain he had misheard. "What?"

"No, Mark," she said, looking pained. "I can't."

He felt his head spin, felt like his entire existence was tenuous at best, felt his stomach plunge down into an icy lake that had suddenly manifested at his feet. "No?"

"Not 'no' no," she amended quickly, undoubtedly at the way his skin had gone pasty white. She lifted a hand and tenderly stroked his cheek, then left it there. "'No' for right now. You can't doubt I love you and _have_ loved you for as long as I can remember, but… I'm still in school. I have no career of my own. I have my own dreams and aspirations, and still feel like I need to find who I am. As much as I love you, the last thing I want is to be is defined by who I'm married to." She seemed to be searching his eyes for an answer.

"But nothing would change, Bridget. The only difference is—"

"The difference is that when I'm engaged, my mother, all the friends and family, will start expecting the actual wedding to occur very soon afterwards. I want that someday, Mark, more than you can imagine, but right now, I'm not ready for it. I may not be for a little while, but it doesn't make me want you any less." She shook her head. "I don't feel like I'm making sense. Does that make any sense?"

"Not really, Bridget; when you're done with school, we'll already be living together. Functionally, for all intents and purposes, a married couple already." He wondered for a horrifying moment if she would refuse that, as well.

"Yes, Mark, I know," she said. "I just didn't think you'd ask already."

"Already?" he asked. "We talked about this two years ago, not last week."

"I meant before I was out in the world on my own, not a student, not without a career I can be proud of." She sighed, her voice laden with emotion. "I'm sorry to hurt you. I can see I've hurt you."

He placed his hand on hers, then held if fast as he turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand, closing his eyes. He supposed in a way he did understand; her comment sprung to mind about not wanting to be a kept woman. "If you want to wait," he said at last, "we'll wait."

She was quiet again. "Can I accept the ring as a promise to accept a proposal at a future date?"

A laugh escaped his throat unbidden; it was just the bit of levity he needed.

She seemed to think he was laughing off the idea, however. "I can wear it, I don't know, on a different finger, or the opposite hand—"

He reached and took the box from her hand, pulled the ring from its housing, then took her hand and slipped the ring onto her left ring finger. "I'll accept your promise to accept my future proposal. Again."

She smiled, clearly relieved, then leaned forward to hug then kiss him deeply.

"I'm afraid you're stuck with me," she whispered. He chuckled.

Pam Jones, however, did not understand. Prepared to hear happy news when the two of them entered the house again, she did not wait for an announcement, instead blurting, "An engagement! Oh, I knew it was only a matter of time!"

"Mother," said Bridget gently. "We're… not engaged."

Pam was incredulous; Colin, more subtly so. Pam erupted, "Are you telling me you said no?!"

"I didn't say yes," she said, "and I didn't say no."

"What kind of ruddy answer is that?" she asked.

"It's an 'I'm not ready to be engaged yet, but some day I will be' sort of answer."

"Don't give me that kind of smart—" She stopped short when she spotted Bridget's hand. "Bridget!" Pam shrilled. "You're wearing a ring!"

"Isn't it lovely?" she asked, holding it up to show it off. "It was Mark's grandmother's."

"So tell me how is this any different than actually being engaged!"

"It's a promise to someday accept a proposal," she explained, "without the clock ticking down to an actual wedding day."

Colin understood exactly what Bridget was driving at, and began to chuckle; then again, thought Mark, in humour, logic and intellect, he and his daughter had always had more in common.

"Don't you laugh," said Pam.

"Makes perfect sense to me," said Colin.

Ignoring him, Pam then directed her words to Bridget again, as if Mark were not even right there. "I don't know what would possess you to refuse! When I was your age—"

"—you hadn't even met me," piped in Colin. "Give her a break, Pam. She isn't refusing, she's just postponing. They clearly love each other, and girls—excuse me, young women—these days don't need to marry straight away, and she's not even out of school."

"Thank you, Dad," she said.

Colin nodded with a smile.

Pam turned her blazing blue eyes on Mark. "Are you happy with this choice?"

Truthfully, he would have married her that night if he could have, but he didn't think it helpful to say so. "If that's what she wants, I'm willing to wait."

His words echoed ones of so long ago; as he said them, both Colin and Mark smiled. "You are a patient man, son," he said, "and once again I'm thankful for it."

They stayed for dinner, which was delicious as always, though a bit tense, with Pam's irritation at her daughter not actually being engaged an almost palpable force. By the time they left, it was starting to get dark, and the temperature had gone quite cool. He drove himself and Bridget back to the cottage, but asked her to head inside and put on the kettle while he went to get a special tea blend from the main house. She smiled and did as he asked.

His real reason for going inside wasn't for the tea so much as to tell his parents how things had turned out with the proposal. He wondered precisely how sepulchral he looked when his mother's expression changed to one of concern upon meeting her in the kitchen.

"Mark, what's wrong?" she asked, setting down the cup of tea she was herself preparing.

"Bridget said… well, not 'no', so much as 'not right now'."

Rather than shock and outrage as Pam Jones had expressed, she instead smiled and turned philosophical. "Well, I guess we're just reassured that she really does love you and isn't anxious to get her feet under the table—even though she's really had a place there for as long as I can remember."

Mark managed a small chuckle as she patted his shoulder comfortingly. "Thanks," he said.

"What's going on in here?" It was Malcolm, coming in with his dessert plate.

"They're not engaged," explained Elaine.

"Why not?" asked Malcolm.

Mark explained the 'not now' situation to his father, who then (with an air of relief) made a dismissive sound. "Don't know what all the fuss is about anyway, and she is young," he said. He set his plate down. "Well, I'll put that ring back for safe keeping."

"She kept it."

"She kept it but you're not engaged?"

"Yes," he said. "As a token of a promise to someday accept, she told me."

Elaine chuckled. "How very like her," she said.

"I don't doubt you'll get married someday," added his father.

Mark nodded, sure they would too. "Well," he said. "I promised I'd get the black tea with lavender."

Without a word, his mother fetched it for him, and sent him on his way with an affectionate kiss on his cheek. "It _will_ happen someday," she said.

………

Mark would indeed accept waiting until 'someday' for her to say yes to an actual proposal, but he didn't realise how much this deferment stung him deep down when, come the following work week, he saw Jeremy in chambers with a grin on his face.

"What do you have to be so happy about?" joked Mark as he rifled through his attaché looking for a particular folder of papers.

"I'm getting married," he said.

Mark stopped what he was doing and looked up to Jeremy. "What?"

"At the Law Council dinner, I asked Magda to marry me, and she said yes."

Mark was no less confused. "But you've haven't been together a year."

He made a dismissive sound. "The length of time hardly matters, Mark," he said. "She's beautiful, she's extremely well-bred, she's got amazing connections… why would I want to wait?"

Mark thought it rather telling that there was no mention whatsoever of love, or of being in love with her. He also thought of those pub crawls of Horatio's that Jeremy had participated in and his own direct knowledge of Jeremy's dalliances—one-night stands, truth be told—with other women after meeting Magda (which he dared not mention to Bridget). "If that's what you want, well, congratulations," Mark offered with as much sincerity as he could muster.

"Thanks," said Jeremy.

Thoughts of his thwarted engagement and Jeremy's unexpected one, coupled with thoughts of Bridget's departure back to Bangor the following weekend, put him in a more unpleasant mood than usual. When he got home later than anticipated, he expected to find she'd attempted to cook again, or at least ordered takeaway. Instead, she was on the sofa, reading a book, surrounded by clutter: discarded clothing, shoes, candy wrappers, dirty water glasses and so on. That she continued to ignore his requests for a tidy place seemed passively defiant and obstinate, a refusal to accept adult responsibilities.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Reading," she said, not looking up. "It's my last chance for pleasure reading before returning to uni."

"You might have cleaned up after yourself a bit," he said.

"I'll do it before bed," she said.

"That hardly helps the situation now," he said. "Have you given any thought to supper?"

She turned suddenly to look at the clock on the wall. "Oh, Christ, Mark. I'm sorry. Time got away from me."

He exhaled sharply. "I really didn't want to have to think about this when I got home."

"I said I'm sorry!" she said. "I'll call for—"

"No. I'll do it myself."

He was about to dial the Chinese takeaway place when he heard footsteps marching across the flat. He looked up and saw Bridget at the flat door, struggling to put her shoes on.

"Bridget, what are you doing?"

"I'm going out."

"What? Why?"

"My company is clearly not wanted tonight."

"Why would you think that?" he asked; she slipped into her jacket, not answering. "Where are you going?"

She turned looked at him icily; her hair was caught in the jacket, which was also somewhat askew on her shoulders. "Somewhere you're not," she said. "I can't stand when you get like this."

He was taken aback. "What do you mean, when I get like this?"

"Irritable and bossy," she said. "I don't know if it's your work or what, but you're like this more frequently than you used to be, for sure."

"How have I been irritable and bossy?" he asked.

"Well, _that_ for starters," she said; his tone had been, in retrospect, a bit harsh. "Snapping at me, not listening to me…."

He sighed, realising that perhaps she was right. "I'm sorry," he said. He walked closer to her, reaching his hand out towards her. "Forgive me."

She eyed him with a scowl. "So is it work?"

"Maybe a little," he said.

"Something else?"

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like me."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said sharply.

The moment the words escaped his lips he regretted saying them. Her eyes went slightly round; she pursed her lips, and angrily righted her jacket.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"I'm going out," she said. "Don't wait up."

"Bridget!" he barked. She did not heed him, and he was not about to restrain her forcefully.

Naturally he did wait up, as it was in his nature to worry about her; at the very least, anyway, he tried. It was the soft touch of fingers on his forearm through the cotton of his dress shirt that roused him from where he'd dozed off on the sofa. It was Bridget, sitting next to him on the sofa and looking very melancholy. "I told you not to wait up," she said quietly.

"As you can see, I didn't." He pushed himself upright. Before he had a chance to ask where she'd been or apologise for snapping at her, she began to speak.

"Just been to Magda's," she said in that same low tone. "She told me the news."

The engagement.

"I'm sorry," she continued. "You were lovely about my answer but I know it must have stung a bit. No man likes to hear 'no' on what he must think is a sure bet… and then after just, what, eight months with Jeremy, Magda says yes."

"Don't apologise," he said.

"Was that it?"

She had this way of looking at him, capturing his gaze, that told him she couldn't be brushed off with a white lie. "Yes," he said. "A little. That and that you're going back to Bangor."

She touched his hand. "One more year of uni, Mark."

"I know," he said. She scooted closer and he pulled her into his arms. "I've gotten spoiled," he said. "I'm going to miss you."

"Even if I'm a terrible housekeeper," she said quietly.

"You've still got time to learn," he teased.

………

As the autumn passed into winter, Mark found himself being given additional responsibility with more difficult cases. He was handling them like a barrister twice his age—so he had been told on more than one occasion—but he hadn't consciously considered how the subject matter of the cases would affect him. What humans were capable of doing to other humans was nothing short of an atrocity. His commitment and passion for the causes he championed did not wane, but as he handled them he found himself learning to keep his emotional distance and remain aloof and professional; it was the only way he could ultimately achieve a win. The worst part of it, in some ways, was that he could not share these details with Bridget; rather, that he _would_ not. She was his safe haven, his refuge. As sensitive as she was, and with as a big heart as she had, the stories would have hurt her deeply; she always believed the best of people and while she was no longer quite as naïve as she had been, he did not want to shatter her remaining innocence about the reality of the world.

The long drive between London and Bangor meant he was able to leave work behind him; the negativity he dealt with faded with each mile of road behind him and each mile closer to her and the flat she'd taken now that Magda had graduated.

After five and a half years of a mostly long-distance relationship, he did not look forward any less to reaching his destination to find her, and she looked no less happy to see him.

Before he knew it, Christmas break was upon them and to his delight she was with him in London again; Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year's, Turkey Curry Buffet were come and gone in a flash, time in London and time in Grafton Underwood and then it was back to school again. The snow seemed to leave as quickly as it came; the routine of working, living, driving to Bangor, made time fly like a well-oiled machine into spring.

Bridget graduated with honours. The entire contingency of their families made the trip to Bangor. Seeing her at the graduation ceremony made him prouder than he could express, and he could not wipe the broad smile from his face, not after the honours were bestowed, not during dinner, not after seeing their parents to the hotel, not after retiring for the night in her flat.

"You've always been a brilliant writer," he murmured into her ear as he kissed her throat, her ear, pulled her up against him as they lie in bed. "So proud of you."

He felt her chuckle low in her throat.

"Hm?" he queried, not ceasing his attentions.

"You really know how to woo a girl."

He chuckled too, before rearing up to look into her eyes. The magnitude of the future to come—that this was their last night in her flat in Bangor, her last night in Bangor, full stop—seemed to hit them simultaneously, at least he assumed that was why she suddenly looked so emotional.

"Tomorrow," he said, "we start the next chapter of the story."


	19. Chapter 18

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,322.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 18_

After a long drive and a longer series of lift trips bringing up her various and sundry possessions—both her things from her Bangor flat, and additional things from her childhood bedroom that she had decided she could not live without—Mark would have thought she would have been too tired for anything but a hot shower then falling into bed and straight to sleep. He thought he would have been too.

As she kissed him, stroked him into passionate frenzy, and climbed atop him, he realised he'd never been more thrilled to have guessed wrong.

Afterwards she curled into his arms as she had so many times before, purring contentedly before she sighed, "This never gets old."

At that he couldn't help but chuckle, but also couldn't help thinking that after five years together—fewer than that being intimate, granted—they still could have such an active sex life. She asked what was so funny, and he told her.

"Well, durr," she said. "I love you. Why wouldn't I want to spend time showing you how much, and making you as happy as I could?" After a moment of thoughtful contemplation, she added, "That and we're young."

He chuckled again. "You're what I'd call young," he said. "I'm officially entering my late twenties in the autumn."

"Oh." She looked thoughtful again. "Well, that's it then," she said, kicking the covers back, pulling away from him, sitting up and folding her arms over her chest.

"Bridget?" he asked, confused.

She tried to look serious, but was clearly fighting a smirk. "I'll just need to find a younger lover, that's all."

There was a part of him, a large part of him, that knew she was teasing, but the small part of him that thought for a moment she could be the tiniest bit serious was the part that took hold of his features, of his gut. He felt genuinely hurt.

"Mark," she said, dropping her arms. "You don't think I'm serious, do you?"

He could not meet her eyes, ashamed for having the reaction he'd had.

She stroked his arm, then his face, encouraging him to look up at her. "I'm sorry," she said.

"I know you were kidding," he said in a quiet voice. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry," she said with a measure of finality. "I'll keep you young."

………

Having been obviously happy with her work the previous summer, Lake House Books hired Bridget back, but not with the book publishing office. They had a position open at the office of their magazine, _Londonium_, and giddily she accepted. She was to start on the fifteenth of July; in celebration he took her out for supper, and since it was her choice, they went to a Thai restaurant.

"I don't know exactly what I'll be doing," she said, "but it's a foot in the door."

"You'll be running the place before long," Mark quipped.

It turned that her main responsibilities laid in the mail room, but by the time Mark's birthday came around she had already been assigned additional tasks like minor copy editing; she excelled at this as well. In the evenings, if Mark had prep work for court the next day, if inspiration struck, or if she was not out socialising with some of her new friends from work, she spent time on her now-ageing computer, writing a novel she had begun after her arrival to London, to the point of frustration on his part when she couldn't tear herself away. She and Mark had a teasing rivalry between her Macintosh, now running System 7 (which was much improved over the 6 it had come with), and his new computer running Windows 3.1 (which he'd gotten for compatibility of files between home and office). She never failed to remind him that her operating system could read his floppies without issue, while he boasted that he at least had colour on his monitor, and the screen was also bigger.

"That's all you men think of is size," she teased in return.

Neither was Mark bored. He had been drafted to assist on a major case involving the newly established "safe areas" for Bosnian Muslims in the Yugoslavian war. The challenge was invigorating, but it kept him at the office much later than he liked, and exposed him to additional atrocities that he remained determined not to share with Bridget.

As the summer passed, they had Magda and Jeremy's wedding to look forward to; Magda, who wanted to marry as soon as she could, had chosen early November, most likely because that was when The Century Club had its first available opening. Bridget had been asked to be in the wedding party, as had Mark. She was rather excited about the prospect as she had not been in a wedding before, but he could only think of Jeremy's words, and his own disappointment that his own wedding was still such a vague, someday concept. Mark tried to cheer himself by thinking he might ask her again for a true engagement; knowing her as he did, he reasoned that she would be so swept up by wedding fever that she might say yes.

A few days before the actual wedding, though, with her twenty-second birthday a few days beyond that, she would surprise him.

"Magda's quitting her job," said Bridget, standing at the window, looking out into the chilly night, swirling the remains of her dinner wine in the glass she held in her hand.

"Is she?"

"Mm-hm," she replied, then tipped her glass to drink the rest of it in one swallow. She seemed so far away, so lost in thought in a melancholy way, that he was moved to stand by her, place his hand on her waist, plant a kiss into her hair.

"You don't think she's making a mistake in marrying him, do you?"

"Oh no, of course not," she replied automatically. "She really, really loves Jeremy. I'm happy for her."

"Then what's the matter?"

She didn't answer right away; with the darkness outside and the faint light inside, he could just make out her reflection in the pane of glass. She was clearly thinking about how to phrase what she was feeling. "She worked so hard for her degree, she's barely out of uni, only at that job little more than a year…."

"Did he ask her to quit?"

She fell silent again for some time before answering. "No," she said at last. "I know it's her choice, but it just seems so… so _wrong_ to give it all up already. It's like she's surrendering who she is in exchange for a husband. I don't think I could ever be that totally dependent on one person, on one man. I would feel completely powerless."

He did not know what to say, particularly as she had depended on him in many ways since she was much younger. His silence must have spoken volumes to her, because she turned around and looked up at him. "You know I don't mean like that," she admonished. "As much I know you like giving them to me, you know I've never been comfortable with accepting so much from you, expensive gifts and nights out for dinner and so on. I never want to be a kept woman."

"I know," he said.

She carried on, almost as if he had not spoken. "I love Magda like a sister, but she thinks nothing of the pricey jewellery and expensive clothes, in fact seems to expect it as part of the ritual… and what if something—God forbid—happens down the line and they split? What then? She'd be stuck. She'd have nothing of her own, career ties severed, nothing to fall back on, and knowing her, she'll want to have babies…"

He embraced her. "No need to borrow trouble," he said softly, even as her words seemed strangely foreboding. "If this is what she wants, then I see no reason to question her choice. What's right for you isn't right for everyone."

He felt her sigh and press herself more closely into him. "I know," she said so quietly he almost didn't hear her. "I'm grateful you understand me so well."

He pressed a kiss into her hair, though wasn't actually sure at times he understood her at all. He especially wondered, and not particularly rationally so, if her own need for independence was rooted in contingency plans.

………

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

The way she asked with a smirk told him she was teasing as they entered the cinema for a viewing of "Power of Attorney" and "The Second Verdict", a special showing of two episodes from the old US television show _The Alfred Hitchcock Hour_. They took a seat in the centre back as they always did, and not unexpectedly the cinema was sparsely populated. They loved coming to the cinema to see these old films, hearkening, he supposed, to the first of their dates. "I don't know," he said. "What might I be trying to say?"

"Mmmm," she said, then leaned into him to whisper, "perhaps the hold you still have over me after all this time." She went to kiss him, but he placed a finger across her lips.

"House lights," he said. "Still up."

"I don't care," she said, pushing his hand out of the way and kissing him chastely on the lips, much to his relief; there was a reason they chose to sit in the back of the theatre. "Popcorn?" she asked, batting her eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. He chuckled.

"Of course," he said. He'd expected it, had intended on returning to concessions for her popcorn and drink.

"Diet Coke," she reminded.

"Of course," he said again.

It occurred to him that another reason they came to see old films was same reason they sat in the back of the theatre, because inevitably they always began snogging like a pair of teenagers. That day was no different. Mark especially appreciated the new trend in theatres to make the armrests between seats able to be flipped up and out of the way, allowing him to hold her even more closely against him. It was murderous torture, especially that day with the way she was kissing his throat, to get so fired up only to have to hold off until they went home to actually get relief.

This day would, however, be different in that respect.

"Poor Mark," she whispered, running her hand over the front of his trousers, causing him to bite on his lip to refrain from uttering out a groan. "How awful of me to do this to you." He had no idea to what she was referring, since this was certainly not the first time he'd gotten hot and bothered kissing her at the cinema, until she slid the zip of his trousers down. She then reached behind him for his coat, sliding it around her shoulders before utterly shocking him and climbing onto his lap. The coat, he realised, was for a modicum of privacy, though there was no one near them for rows and rows. He slid his hands up her thighs and found her completely bare under her skirt.

He hoped the growl he made upon this discovery did not carry, and he hoped the same when she dropped down upon him, began riding him, began grazing her teeth on his throat, or when he grasped her hips, shuddered and came.

He would not go home merely anticipating satisfaction.

"What did you think?" she asked, threading her arm through his as they exited the theatre.

He thought about his answer before delivering it: "I feel like I've just spent the afternoon at the opera."

He had always loved her laughter, unrestrained and joyous. He always would.

………

"Oh, God, Mark, I'm so sorry."

Those words, her expression of deep remorse and sadness, were not the sort of thing he wanted to hear upon arriving home. She was clearly all right; was it his parents? "What's happened?"

She looked like she was about to cry, quivering lip, glossy eyes and all. His stomach plummeted to the ground.

She said at last: "I broke your computer."

He furrowed his brows, not comprehending at first what it was that she'd said. "What?"

"I broke your computer."

"You broke it?" he asked.

She nodded. He couldn't imagine what she could have done to possibly break a computer. He put down his attaché, slipped out of his coat and jacket, and went to the spare bedroom, in which he had set up a small home office.

He fought the urge to laugh. She hadn't broken anything at all. She had only rebooted the computer with a floppy disk in the drive, one that couldn't be recognised by the computer, which was asking either to format or eject it. The warning on the screen said as much.

"Oh, darling," he said with a deep, sorrowful voice. "What have you done now?"

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I ruin everything I touch."

It was her actual bursting into tears that caused him to drop the teasing. He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her hair. "I can fix it."

"How can you fix it? It's broken."

"It's not broken." He reached forward and pressed the button on the front of the floppy drive, spitting out the disk (which was one of her own Macintosh-formatted disks that his computer could not read), then pressing a key to allow the normal boot sequence to proceed. "You needed only to actually read what the screen said."

"Oh." She sniffed, then chuckled. "I'm sorry for being such a dope sometimes."

"Stop that," he said. "You're not a dope. You just go into panic mode a little prematurely at times."

He didn't ask why she was at his computer; he suspected her own had been acting up again, and it hardly mattered to him if she wanted to write on his instead. It wasn't until days later, when he went to pull up a document he'd been working on, that he noticed also in the directory was one similarly named, with a last modified date of the day of the PC panic.

He opened it, then chuckled as he read it. "Bridget?" he called.

"Hm?" she asked, coming into the room.

"Care to explain this to me?"

She came near enough to read the document on his screen. "It's one of your legal things."

What it was, in actuality, was a rough translation—and it was truly rough—of the document he'd been working on into a very special brand of Bridget legalese. "No," he said. "This is my document." He pointed to the directory with the actual document.

She exhaled. "Oh, God."

"What happened?"

"That night," she began, "I came in to work on my novel so put in my floppy. When it couldn't read the disk, I decided to just start my thoughts in a new document. I was curious about the one you had up, and read it a bit, but of course it always goes over my head, so I just tried opening a new one. It made yours disappear. That really freaked me out. I thought I'd deleted it. So I tried to rewrite it for you, and then I restarted the thing. What is so funny?"

He couldn't help it. He had begun laughing aloud, and he reached for her hand. He pulled her close and embraced her from where he sat at the desk. "I adore you."

………

The fifth of November turned out to be pleasant by November standards, no rain or snow, not even huge gusts of wind to ruin hairstyles or dresses. He had not seen Bridget in her bridesmaid dress until pre-ceremony assembly outside of the church (she'd stayed at Magda's the night before), and when he did, he felt a lump in his throat. She looked absolutely beautiful in the pearly-pink dress, the full skirt falling from an extremely flattering low waist, the full sleeves and pearl and floral hair adornment making her look like a princess.

He slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. "Gorgeous," he said.

"Ugh," she said. "I don't know what Magda was thinking in picking these dresses. I feel like an enormous pink poofball."

"You're welcome," he said, mildly chastising her.

"Sorry," she said, looking sheepish. "Thanks." She pulled her lips into a thin line. "Do I really look nice?"

Given that he could not get the image out of his head of her as his own bride, he thought 'nice' was an understatement. "I think you're going to give Magda a run for her money."

She giggled, then no more was said, as the music began and the men in the wedding party went to take their place at the front of the church.

Magda was breathtaking as a bride, so beautiful, confident and sure of herself in her union with Jeremy that Mark could not help but feel disappointment with the entire day in the end, since he had not even up to this point been able to get Bridget to commit to an engagement. He decided to roll the dice and ask again as they danced at the reception.

"Mark," she said, her eyes lowering to stare fixedly at the rose in his lapel for a moment. "I'm not even out of uni a year. Don't you think it's too soon?"

He tried to laugh it off—"Just checking" is what he said in response—though inside wanted nothing more than to remind her that the bride and groom that day hadn't even been dating two years. Instead he pulled her to him, reminding himself that at least he had her even as a pre-fiancée, feeling grateful as a result; some men were never so lucky.

………

With the increased responsibilities and caseload at work—unprecedented for a barrister who had barely been practicing three years—Mark's work days grew even longer still, expanding out even into the weekends at times. Bridget, for her part, seemed to understand, for which he was grateful. Also as a consequence, he was more in the public eye than he had ever thought he would be, and was making more money than he'd ever expected.

He thought it was time to move out of his parents' flat. She seemed hesitant at best.

"Don't you want a place of our own?" he asked.

"This is a place of our own," she said.

"I mean a flat that's truly ours, maybe even a house."

"It'd be yours, Mark," she said. "I barely make enough to stock our pantry."

He clenched his jaw tight, biting back a comment about how what was his was hers, or at least would legally be so if they were married. "It just doesn't feel right to continue to use this place, not when we could be somewhere nicer, somewhere in my own name."

"Do your parents want us to move?" she asked. "Besides, I happen to really like it here. I feel so close to the heart of things, and it's terribly convenient, being so close to work. And what does it matter if it's in your own name?"

"It looks a little… well, like I'm still accepting my parents' help. I'm going to be thirty soon. I need to appear to be standing on my own."

"But you are standing on your own," she said.

"But to own no property, to have no assets of my own…" he drifted off. "No one will take me seriously."

She said nothing in response, at least not at first. "No one?" she asked. "Do you really think no one will take you seriously, that your work alone doesn't say enough about you? Who is that you really think won't take you seriously?" Her question was rhetorical. She clearly knew to whom he was referring: other barristers, other people with whom he worked and saw professionally. "Who cares if you're living in a family flat? What is this really all about, Mark?"

"Bridget," he said, sighing. "You must realise by now, after living more than a year in London, that, whether unfairly or not, appearances often count for more than anything else."

She stared wide-eyed at him. "I cannot believe I'm hearing this."

"I can't believe you don't want a bigger place," he replied. "Don't you feel like maybe we've outgrown this flat? It was all right when we were younger, just starting out, but now…"

"No, I don't feel like we've outgrown this flat," she said. "There's a whole room in the back that has nothing in it."

"It has boxes in it."

"Boxes that could be unpacked, or junk that could be gotten rid of… my point is that we're hardly living in the space of a postage stamp. We're very comfortable here. At least I am." She was still gazing at him with an intensity he was not used to seeing from her. "Besides, I have a particular emotional attachment to this flat, Mark. I should not have to remind you of that."

He looked down, tried to mentally distance himself from their situation. He supposed there were worse things than having a sizeable flat just off of Trafalgar Square, and he hadn't really considered that a family flat could lend an air of prestige, rather than make him seem like he's taking charity. "Of course you don't," he said, meeting her eyes again. "I'm sorry. I guess I was overreacting."

She smiled at last.

"Perhaps we could, however, do with a little paring down of the stuff in the boxes," he continued, "or in the back of the closet."

"I suppose," she said; "sure."

It was a few months later, after having sorted things on her own while he worked late, that she declared she was finished cleaning through her things. The resultant pile was a lot smaller than he might have expected.

"You went through the closet, right?"

"Mm-hm," she said, taping up the topmost box.

"But I just saw that frilly dress of yours back there this morning."

"Are you talking about my Jane Austen dress?"

He suddenly remembered how sweet she'd looked back then, picnicking in the garden with that dress on. "Yes."

"Oh, I can't get rid of that."

"Why not?"

She looked to him suddenly. "Because I love that dress. I thought you liked it too."

"Well, I did," he said.

"You _did_?" she asked in disbelief.

"You've… well, outgrown it."

"It still fits."

"I mean it's not suitable for a twenty-something professional woman. I hardly see the point in keeping it."

She did not reply right away, just focused her concentration on taping up the box. "I'm not getting rid of it, Mark," she said quietly. "I thought you of all people would understand."

He didn't understand hanging on to a dress that was far too young for her and far too inappropriate for her to ever wear again, but he thought it was probably best to let the matter drop.

However, her eyes flashed to him again. "I suppose you expect me to throw away all of my stuffed animals. My childish books, my _Pride and Prejudice_, my _Velveteen Rabbit_. My folders full of stories."

"Bridget, don't be—"

She held up a single finger. "Don't say it. Do _not_ even say it."

He exhaled sharply, trying to remember if the transition from childhood playmates to romantic partners and lovers had been half as difficult as adjusting to this aspect of living together. He wasn't sure it had been. "I'm sorry. Can we just drop it?"

"It's hard to drop it if I think you're going to be scrutinising my possessions and mentally assessing which of them really belong in this new life of yours."

"Of mine?"

She was clenching her teeth, looked very emotional. "Yes, Mark. I don't think you've realised how you've changed."

"How exactly have I changed?"

"You never used to care about material things and appearances half as much as you do now," she said. "You used to find my silly dresses and pom-pom winter hats and dolls sort of charming. Now they just seem like an annoyance to you."

"No," he said, still reeling from her words. "They're not." He saw her eyes welling with tears and suddenly understood what this was really about, at least in Bridget's mind, the way she tended to think. "Do you think this means that somehow I don't love you anymore?"

At his question she burst into great sobs, bringing her hands to her face and turning away. "You want someone pretty and polished and perfect… and I am none of those things."

"Darling." He went up to her, placed his hands on her upper arms and turned her around to him once more. "I love you, always have, always will."

"You've missed so many movie nights," she said, still with her face in her hands. "Come home so late, so often."

"It's nothing to do with you," he said. "I'm so sorry that work lately has kept me from being here with you. I'll try to be more mindful in future, I promise."

She sniffed, then pulled her hands down to turn her reddened eyes to him.

"You are pretty; beautiful, in fact," he said, "and while you may not be polished, you will always be perfect for me."

She blinked away tears that dropped down onto her cheeks, which he was quick to wipe away. "Even though I cry like a baby."

"I don't want a woman who can't express how she feels," he said. At that she actually chuckled; he took the opportunity to kiss her, then take her into his arms. "I'm sorry," he said softly upon breaking from the kiss. "I love you, I love your body, I love your mind, and I love your things." She giggled again, then jumped up to kiss him again, which somewhat inevitably led to a long, lovely night of passion that began on the floor of the back room, and ended up in their bed.

After what seemed destined to be the final round for the night, it was the ring on her fourth finger tugging on his hair as she raked her nails through it that set him to thinking once more about the unofficial status of their engagement. He wanted nothing more than to make her his wife. Why was it she seemed so hesitant to make him her husband? Was there still some doubt in her mind?

………

Mark was true to his word… at least for a little while, at least until her own job, which now included copy and content editing, started to keep her late at the office too. He then saw little point in stopping work and racing home to an empty house. They ate more takeaway than he cared to think about. They were both too tired to cook, and, as became more and more common, often retired with little more than a kiss on the lips.

His love for her had not waned. He was certain, given the continued thoughtfulness of her gifts and the heat of their lovemaking when they did have the opportunity, that her love for him had not waned either. He thought probably it had more to do with the reality of adult life (not the few and far between visits as it had been when they were younger) than a lack of interest. Aside from wanting them to make it legal, their parents were thrilled that they were still together and happy. He'd asked her twice more, once each passing year, if she'd consent to officially be his fiancée, and twice more she demurred. It was frustrating, to be sure; he too wanted to make it legal more than anything in the world.

He could hardly believe when she turned twenty-four because he remembered her turning fourteen like it was yesterday, just after they'd discussed Live Aid, and after that, he'd begun university at Cambridge. It was 1995; they'd been together for eight years, sleeping together for nearly seven (and he, her first and only lover), and living together steadily for two and a half.

In some ways she was still the girl he'd known a decade ago. When a new production of her favourite Austen book was announced and he learned it would be airing that September, she was sceptical given the rumours—that the production would be overly sexed-up, that no one could replace Olivier—and decreed she would watch to tear it apart. However, as it aired over the month and a half that it did, he quickly learned not to speak to her when those episodes aired, because her attention, her imagination, had been thoroughly captured. He watched with her, though honestly did not see the appeal, aside from it being a more faithful reproduction of the novel.

When Fitzwilliam Darcy emerged from the lake soaking wet in his white shirt, he thought she was going to faint dead away. "Ohhh," she said dreamily. "_He's_ my favourite Darcy now." At his assuredly distraught look, she added hastily, "Well. Aside from you."

He also had not seen her writing with such frenzy since her early teenage years. He often would look up from his own work upon completion to see her intently staring at the screen, lower lip adorably caught between her teeth as she typed away. He would frequently ask about this novel she had been working on since they moved in together on a permanent basis, but she would not give details. It was unusual that she did not let him read a work in progress.

It got to the point where he begged her to let him read it. She would always smirk as she refused. "You'll just have to wait."

The more she refused, the more he wanted to read it.

One night while she was out with two girlfriends from work, he booted her computer and found the file residing on the Desktop. It was not hard to miss; 'Novel!!' was the file name. He double-clicked on it—and was stymied when it requested a password to proceed. He was also a mite traumatised that she would resort to locking the file… as well as her knowing him well enough to know she'd need to do so. Try as he might, he entered everything he could think of that she might have entered as a password—Trafalgar, Jane Austen, her birthday, his birthday, even Germany—but he was denied entry. Frustrated, he sat back in the chair, then got up and went to pour himself something to drink.

She came home shortly afterwards, and studied him for about a minute before smirking. "You'll never guess it."

"What?"

"My password."

He lowered his brows. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mark, you can't fool me," she said with a grin. "If I go back there I'm going to find my computer's on, won't I?"

He sighed. "I just wanted to read it."

She came up, placed her hands upon his chest, and pecked him on the lips. "When it's done."

………

Ringing in New Year 1996, he could not help but speculate what exciting changes might come in the next twelve months. He had hopes for an engagement, possibly even a wedding, and smiled as he kissed her, as the cheers surrounded them in Trafalgar Square.

When reflecting back on that night later that following year, he would search his memory looking for some sign, some hint, of the change that would occur that year. He would never find one. Though he would torture himself trying to find answers, he realised that deep down he could never have seen what was coming.


	20. Chapter 19

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~4,792.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

Thank you all for sticking with this… It means a lot to me. (Remember, there are 24 chapters, then an epilogue. We're almost there…)

* * *

_Chapter 19_

The work on the safe zones was heating up, and Mark had just spent an entire day, in the course of trying to quickly process requests for asylum, listening to tape-recorded statements about the various cruelties committed against the requesting parties. He had so many more hours to go but knew that he could not continue that evening, particularly as the current tapes were concerning cruelties specific to women and even more difficult to listen to than the others. What he needed to do was go home and find solace in his cosy home, in the arms of his Bridget. Holding her, knowing she was safe, was about the one thing he could take comfort in these days.

He wondered how absolutely wrecked he looked when he came in because the moment she turned her eyes to him, she scrambled to her feet, threw her arms around him and held him tightly to her. "Good grief, Mark," she gasped, pulling him towards the sofa and directly in front of the fireplace. "What happened?"

He sat, and before she had a chance to sit beside him he tugged her to sit across his lap, taking in a deep breath and relishing her perfume in as she hugged him close to her. "Work. Nothing that this can't fix," he said, feeling the peace of his surroundings infusing him already as he held her in return.

"You don't want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Mm," he said, closing his eyes. "No." He did not want to subject her to descriptions of what he had been dealing with, as sensitive as she was; he strove diligently to keep his house a safe haven, free from the horrors of the all-too-close war. He only revelled in her embrace, stroking and twisting her hair around his fingers, and thanking God for how lucky he was to be here with her, keeping her safe and protected from the evils of the world at large.

"Oh," she said eventually; though she did not lessen her hold, did not cease brushing her nails across the hair of his temple, there was something almost disappointed in her tone, like she thought he was choosing not to talk to her. He had to make her understand.

"It's just not something I want to discuss with you," he said. "I'm just glad to be home, here with you, with, I hope, a nice bottle of red uncorked."

"Why?" she said sharply, pulling back abruptly.

"'Why' what?" he asked in return, thinking momentarily that she disapproved in his choice of wine.

"Why not talk to me?"

"I just said—"

"I heard you," she said, "and it's clear to me that you're still upset, but you don't want to talk about it."

"You're right," he said. "I don't."

"Not even with me?"

"Especially not with you," he said.

"Mark!" she said as she pushed herself from his lap and stumbled backwards away from him; he could tell she was fighting tears.

"Bridget, why is this upsetting _you_ so much?"

As soon as he asked it, he regretted it, because she gave him a look that conveyed to him that she thought she shouldn't have to explain. "I thought we could talk about anything. I didn't realise you didn't consider me adult enough to have such serious discussions."

"You know that isn't true," he said, feeling slightly offended himself.

"I know what you do for a living, Mark," she said. "And I work at a magazine; granted, it's a magazine about London life, but I still know what's going on in the outside world, in Yugoslavia, Africa, or whatever it is you're working on this week. I—"

"No," he interrupted firmly. "You _don't_. What I am currently dealing with is horrible, more terrible and heartrending than the world at large suspects, and it's nothing you need or frankly _want_ to know more about. I don't need to talk to you to feel better; I know that telling you about these things would only serve to upset and anger you, which would do nothing to improve _my_ mood." He sighed, speaking again with a softer voice. "I simply need to be with you and everything you represent to me. That's what comforts me at the end of the day."

To her credit, she did look a bit chagrined for assuming the worst of his motives; she looked down then back to him again, a crooked, almost shy smile playing on her lips. "Sorry."

He offered her a smile too, then shook his head slightly as if to say _no apology needed_; she seemed to understand as he held out his hand to take hers, as she joined him on the sofa again. She brushed her hand over the cotton of his dress shirt, working into the knot of his tie, reaching up to stroke his chin then leaning to kiss him.

"It's a lovely fire," she said quietly before kissing his lips. "A lovely night."

_Yes_, he thought as she buried her face into his neck, nuzzling close and holding him tightly to her. _It is._

………

"Oh good. You're home."

It wasn't that anything was wrong. It was just that things weren't entirely right. Dinner was on the table, red wine was poured, and Bridget was dressed up prettily in a flowing skirt and a cashmere jumper he'd bought for her for Christmas, pale blue and soft as silk.

He furrowed his brow. What was going on?

"Mark? What's the matter?" she asked, her hands folded behind her back.

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"I just thought it would be nice to treat you a bit, that's all."

Though still slightly suspicious, he smiled, not wishing to look a gift horse in the mouth. "It is most appreciated," he said, bending to kiss her. "What have you made?"

"Beef roast, new potatoes and steamed asparagus."

"Sounds delicious."

She took his briefcase and coat from him, then urged him to take a seat while she went to hang it up. She came skittering back and fussed over serving him in a manner that Mark thought was eerily reminiscent of her mother. This made him doubly curious.

Before taking her own seat, she pecked his cheek then stroked it affectionately. After serving herself, she smiled, then rested her chin on her palm and looked at him with a slightly dreamy look on her face. He dug into his dinner, which turned out to be quite delicious, and he told her so, teasing with, "Maybe you should cook more frequently."

"I had my mum's help," she said. She picked up her fork at last, but picked at her food like a bird through seed, still with that mysterious smile on her face.

"Bridget," he said. "What's this about?"

She was still thoughtfully pushing her food around until she spoke at long last. "You know I've loved you as long as I can remember."

"Yes," he said, a weird chill washing over him; she looked happy, but was acting so very oddly.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," she said, setting her fork down. She raised her eyes, stood, then walked to his side, perplexing him further when she knelt beside him. "I think you should have some wine." As he picked it up, she added, "Drink slowly."

The moment he tipped the glass up and felt something shift inside it, he had a glimmer of a suspicion of what was in the bottom. As he drank down the wine—trying desperately not to do so too quickly—he saw something shining and metallic through the curved glass, felt something hit against his top lip. He lowered the glass and reached just inside the rim. It was Grandmother Darcy's ring.

"Mark, will you marry me?"

He turned quickly to look at her as she spoke; her eyes were wide and brimming with unshed tears, her lower lip trembling with emotion. He then slid himself off of the chair and down onto his own knee, taking her left hand in his and kissing the back of it.

As he slid the ring into place on her ring finger, he said quietly, "Absolutely." He then cupped her face in his hand and drew her into a kiss, quite possibly the most tender, most loving kiss he'd ever given her. He could taste the salt of her tears as they kissed; he heard her laughing in her delight and relief, and to his surprise felt her fingers slide over the dampness under his own eyes.

After four years of attempted proposals, she was finally his fiancée.

He kissed her again, not caring that his knee was really starting to hurt from being down on the floor, not caring that the delicious meal she'd so thoughtfully prepared (with her mum's help) was cooling as they kissed, touched, caressed each other, not caring how hard the floor was beneath them despite the fine woven area rug. He only cared about that moment, how happy she had made him, how much he loved her, how much he wanted her, how much he looked forward to making her his wife. From her enthusiastic response, from the rapidity with which she shimmied her skirt up and her pants down, she seemed to be in tune with his wants and desires.

Only afterwards did she say, sprawled atop him and long hair dangling down into his face as she kissed his chin, "Suppose it's a good thing our plates can go in that microwave thingy."

He chuckled.

She continued, "I was far too nervous to eat before, but now…"

He pushed himself to sit up with her still against him; she wrapped her legs around his waist as he bent his legs to encircle her, her skirt fanning out to the sides. He just held her close, taking in deep breaths, still not quite accepting the fact that they were engaged.

"Mark?"

Thinking she was going to ask about eating supper again, he said, "Okay, okay, let's get back to eating."

"No," she said as he stood, then helped her to stand too. "Well, yes, I agree, but that's not what I was going to say."

He tilted his head, encouraging her to continue without asking her to do so.

"Do you think that even when we're old and grey, we'll do crazy things like shag in the middle of the dining room floor?" she asked.

He laughed aloud at that, then hugged her again. "My old bones willing, Bridget, yes, I think we will."

………

"It amazes me sometimes," Bridget said out of the blue over the breakfast table the next morning.

"What does?"

"Well, you know. Progress. Technology. Would you have thought fifteen years ago that we'd have little boxes on our countertops that can zap a cold dinner back to life? Or computers in our homes—one for each of us—and that pretty soon all of the floppy disks in my shoe box will fit on a single compact disc, because we'll be able to write our own? I even heard the other day that they're going to put in a computer connection at work to the outside world. Something called the web or something."

He chuckled, turning the page of the newspaper to skim along an article he was reading about the fire that had destroyed La Fenice in Venice the previous month. She must still have been ruminating over their method of reheating dinner since the night before. "It is pretty amazing, when you think about it."

"It really is," she said, stirring her coffee with a teaspoon. "I recently befriended this girl at Coins… works for the most amazing company," she said. "They offer the most unbelievable service. It's really just beyond my comprehension."

"Really?"

"Mm," she said in affirmative, then ate the last bit of her breakfast and washed it down with coffee. She glanced to the kitchen clock and gasped. "Bugger, I'm gonna be late. Gotta go," she said, standing then going over to kiss him goodbye. He was so swept up in the sweetness of her kiss, so distracted by the straight line of vision down the front of her shirt, that it never occurred to ask to what company she was referring.

With the cloud he was on announcing his engagement, its mention was quickly forgotten altogether.

………

The reaction of his parents and hers was about as expected, which was to say, Pam Jones wasted no time in trying to take the organisational reins. Bridget was deft at deflecting her efforts, though she seemed to sense her fate was inevitable.

Mark just wanted to celebrate the occasion, so long in coming, and decided that in addition to making the trip to Grafton Underwood to have dinner with their parents, a small party for friends and associates in London was in order. Bridget agreed. After a short phone conversation with the first invitees to spring to mind, Bridget advised she was going to leave all of the planning to Magda. "She insisted, since you and I are both working. She has time and says 'It will be fun!'" In a confidential tone, she added, "She's bored out of her skull."

Mark chuckled.

The party was set for the first of March; in order to simplify things Magda insisted that it just be held at their new home. "Probably wants to show off the house," Bridget said, pursing her lips. "I adore her but sometimes she can be a bit showy-offy."

It turned out to be a delightful evening; there was no detail she overlooked. In stepping into the house, though, Mark quite took the point about wanting to show off the house. The party was quite ambitious; she had decked out the foyer, the whole main floor, in a very extravagant manner. She'd had the food catered, all manner of appetizers, champagne, and desserts, most of which included chocolate in some form. Magda, after all, knew Bridget very well.

"I've known Mark since just after Bee and I moved in together at uni," Mark overheard Magda saying. "Our first meeting was less than dignified."

That first meeting was not something he cared to reminisce about, particularly with this crowd, so he diverted himself away from that conversation towards where a group of his and Jeremy's colleagues were collecting. Mark was not crazy about parties in general, but it never failed to amuse him how like attracted like. "Hope you're enjoying yourselves," he said.

"Mm," said one of Mark's colleagues, Herbert Longbottom, a justice for the court who for whatever reason chose to continue wearing a pitch black toupee although he was not fooling a soul; his natural hair had gone quite silver. "Quite well. Excellent vintage of wine."

"Good, I'm glad," he said. "Have you met my fiancée yet?"

"I don't believe I have," he said. "Is she the redhead?"

"No, sir, that's Jeremy's wife," Mark said. Jeremy turned at the sound of his own name, then joined the little group. "Bridget's over there. Dressed in the dark blue." She looked exceptionally beautiful that day, with her hair down on her shoulders, shining and falling prettily on her shoulders in a cascade of waves.

"Oh, yes," said Herbert. "Adorable. She looks young, though."

"They've been together since she was fifteen," piped in Jeremy. Mark decided on the spot to cut the man off from any more alcohol.

"Fifteen?" Herbert said, barely able to contain his amusement. "And she's how old now? Seventeen?"

"She's only four years my junior," Mark explained. "We grew up together."

"Lots of time, then, to train her just to your liking," said Herbert with a wink.

Before Mark could respond—with what, he as yet did not know, as he wanted to refute the asinine statement yet not offend the man—he heard Bridget's voice, clear as a bell.

"Oh, I'm on a pretty generous lead," said Bridget, "though I haven't yet responded positively to obedience training." The sparkle in her eye and the smile on her face, combined with the smooth tone of her voice, made Herbert look like the arse he was. He smiled, obviously instantly charmed by her, and he extended his hand, which she shook. "I'm Bridget Jones."

Before Herbert could get the opportunity to lead Bridget into further temptation into imprudence, Mark cut in with, "Bridget, this is the Honourable Herbert Longbottom. May I speak with you in private for a moment?"

"Well," said Bridget, still smirking. "Time for a swat with a rolled newspaper, I suspect."

Herbert laughed again; Mark took her by the upper arm and gently guided her into the kitchen.

"Bridget," he said once the door swung closed behind him, "while men like Judge Longbottom may have antiquated ideas about gender roles, he's still very respected, so if I could beg you to show a little more propriety…"

He trailed off, watching her looking more and more comically contrite, before she started making low puppy-whimpering sounds deep in her throat. At this he could not control the laugh bubbling up and out of him, and as he took her in his arms he could only think how she would always be, in some small way, like the incorrigible little girl he'd once known.

"Sorry," she said quietly to him.

He chuckled again, kissing her cheek. "No, I'm sorry. You know I love you the way you are, but some of these people don't know you the way I do, and I want them to get the right impression about you."

She pulled back. "But if I hadn't spoke up, the impression your judge friend would have had of me was as of a trained puppy."

"If I'd had a chance to correct his misapprehension, I would have," he said. "Men like that are not going to be persuaded from their beliefs in one afternoon."

She smiled slightly. "I know. But what am I supposed to do? Plaster a smile on my face while these sorts of comments go unaddressed? I don't know if I can do that, Mark."

He exhaled loudly; she did have a point, and the last thing he wanted was for her to turn into the sort of woman his colleagues were married to, cold and lacking in personality. "Be yourself, darling, but rise above it—and that will be enough to show anyone with a modicum of sense what arses men like that can be."

At that she chuckled, then, smile still firmly in place, nodded.

Taking his hand, she pulled him back into the party, where he proceeded to have probably one of the very best afternoons of his life. There didn't seem to have been any harm done with Herbert, and everyone else she met for the first time that day appeared to be exceedingly charmed.

………

Bridget told him she was leaving work a little early to spend some time with Magda regarding wedding planning ideas, and he was all too happy to hear it. Given his druthers, he would have whisked her off and eloped with her, but it was a comfort knowing that, while the wedding was not until Christmastime, at least it was going to happen.

He left much too late from work that night, certainly much later than he'd intended, after sunset in early spring. Just as he was smiling to himself and thinking how much he looked forward to returning to the flat and to her (and her undoubted choice of Chinese takeaway for supper; he had eaten at his desk), he noticed a young woman walking alone down their street in the dark of night. He thought fleetingly about how foolish it was to do so with the recent spate of attacks even in the best parts of London. As he got closer, though, his horror was unmatched when he realised it was Bridget herself; his mind began instantly and simultaneously playing back the tapes to which he'd listened, all of those terrible things done to those women echoing in his head.

He jerked hard on the wheel and pulled to the kerb, jamming his fingers down on the button to lower the passenger-side window.

"What are you doing?" he barked. She did not react. He pounded on the horn, only then getting her attention and startling her; she was wearing headphones, listening to a portable cassette player, and had not noticed him before he honked. She tore the headphones from her head and he asked, "Are you mad?"

"What? Why?"

"Get in the car," he said firmly.

"The flat's just around the corner."

"Get in the car," he said again, his voice veritably brimming with the white-hot anger he felt. Setting her jaw firm, she silently pulled the door open and got into the car. He pealed away for the half a block it took to get to their own building. It wasn't until the car was parked and the engine disengaged that he turned to look at her severely.

"You are not to walk home alone in the dark, Bridget. I thought I'd made that clear."

"Mark, I'm not a kid."

"So any man bent on preying upon you would see," he said. The spring weather was pleasant and she was wearing little more than a top and a short skirt; while he knew better to think a woman wearing such things was asking to be attacked, raped or worse, he also knew there were men out there who thought otherwise.

"Oh for God's sake, Mark."

"Don't give me that, Bridget," he said angrily. "You must stop acting so carelessly, walking alone at night, wearing short skirts and headphones that are blaring music so loudly you can't even hear a car approaching, let alone someone on foot. If you're not a kid, then start bloody acting like a responsible adult."

"If I'm not a kid," she said icily, "stop bloody lecturing me like I am one."

For a split-second he was taken back to the days when she was a child, stubborn and recalcitrant about getting her way. He said nothing more; he had gotten his point across, and he didn't care at that point if it had made her feel like a scolded child, not when her safety was at risk.

The silence between then was looming and uncomfortable as they moved around the flat. In lieu of a proper supper she, still mute, made herself a jam sandwich.

"Is that all you're having?" he asked quietly but firmly.

She only offered a glaring look in response, picked up her plate and her glass of milk, and stormed out of the kitchen. He went to the spare bedroom, his office, put his attaché next to the desk, then shed his shoes, suit jacket and tie. From the main room of the flat he could hear the telly come on, louder probably than was strictly necessary, specifically to annoy him. He shut the bedroom door; he still had papers to review for tomorrow. He suspected any request to turn down the volume would result in her doing the exact opposite just to spite him, and in fact the action of shutting the door caused her to do just that. With a great sigh, he sat at the desk and began to read through his papers.

He jerked awake some time later; looking to the clock, he saw that it was two in the morning. He had fallen asleep hunched over the desk. He squared the disarrayed papers then slipped them back into his briefcase before rising and stretching, getting a few good cracks out of his back. He could still hear the telly was on and at top volume. He opened the door and walked to the main area of the flat. She was still on the sofa, though how she could have possibly fallen asleep with the telly that loud was completely beyond him. He went to reach for the remote and saw that in her hand was a clearly damp, crumpled tissue.

He sighed, feeling guilty for not having cleared up things prior to turning to his work, for working at all. He took the remote and switched off the telly, casting the entire main room into darkness and blessed silence. Once his eyes adjusted, he crouched down, slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her up, blanket and all.

As he stepped forward she made a quiet sound and shifted her head. "Where are we going?" she asked drowsily.

"To bed. It's late," he said softly.

"Oh," she said.

The sadness conveyed in that one syllable was almost more than he could bear; he needed to make things right with her. As he crossed the threshold and into their bedroom, he kissed the crown of her head before setting her down. "I'm sorry for before, for shouting," he said, crouching beside her, placing his hand upon her cheek. "I know you think I'm overreacting, but bad things happen every day to people who think it will never happen to them…. I love you so much, you mean so much to me, that the thought of your safety in any way jeopardised just… sets me off."

"Turns you a little crazy is what it does," she added.

"I know."

She sighed, put her hand on top of the one he still had resting on her face. "I'm sorry too." Her eyes were wide, searching his own. "For the telly. I know you were trying to work…"

He chuckled. "I'm sorry for that too," he said, then leaned forward to kiss her. He wagered that he was on the road to being forgiven by the way she kissed him back, then pulled him forward and into bed. Clothes were shed in due time, and by culmination he could tell that peace had ultimately been achieved.

"It's hard to stay angry with you," she murmured as she began to doze off, "when you hold me so tenderly in your arms."

………

"So, Magda had a really great idea."

He turned to look at her, prompting her to continue with a raised brow alone.

"She wants to take me to Paolo, her stylist."

"Stylist?"

She nodded. "He's very good, and it might be nice to lighten the load a bit, particularly for the wedding."

"What are you talking about?"

She pointed to her head; specifically, to the long locks hanging down in a braid over her shoulder. Mark was horrified by the thought, as Magda's latest haircut was rather short, almost pixie-like.

"You don't have to look like that—"

"Absolutely not," he said. "I will not have you look like an elf on our wedding day."

She burst out laughing. "What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

"If you don't want it in your way, you can put it up," he said. "How gorgeous and classic that would look to have it all done up, curls coming down around your face…"

"Oh, for pity's sake, Mark," she said, still smiling, "I'm not going for super short. I am too girly for that." A cloud washed over her features. "I'm tired of not being taken seriously. I'm going to be twenty-five this year. I hate that others think—" She stopped abruptly.

"Think what?"

She pursed her lips. "I'm seventeen."

He realised she must have heard more of what Herbert had said than he thought, and he smiled.

"It's the hair, Mark! No one thinks of me as an adult with hair I could put into plaits!"

"No one forces you to put your hair into plaits," he said, rather pointing out the obvious. "You seem to do that quite willingly—"

"That isn't the point," she interrupted crossly. "I just want to be thought of as—well, the age I am. An adult."

At that he chuckled, then pulled her into a tight hug. "Nonsense," he said, close to her ear; he tugged on the elastic holding the end, then worked his fingers through her hair, unravelling it into sensuous, silken waves that he ran his fingers down along. "I love watching you brush it out in the evening, love it more when you ask me to do so… it's just one of the many beautiful things I love about you, Bridget."

He felt her arms come up and around him. That she did not offer further argument indicated to him that he'd prevailed, once again; of course he would always love her regardless of her the state of her hair, but he really loved it long. As he'd told her before, it made her more of a goddess to him than she already was.


	21. Chapter 20

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,872.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 20_

The month of May found a most unbelievable opportunity landing at Mark's feet: the possibility of working and practising with a very prestigious law firm in the United States. Even with the hurdle of passing the Bar exam in New York State, he learned very quickly that he was eagerly expected to apply by the senior barristers in chambers: it was perfect for a barrister practising as long as Mark had been (fewer than five years), it was on a contract basis, and it involved working with the United Nations.

He was, however, a little wary of broaching the subject with Bridget. He hoped to assuage her fears that it would not interfere with their wedding plans, as the job was not due to begin for nearly a year; the screening process would take a long time, not to mention preparation for licensing to practise law across the Atlantic, work visas and the like. He needn't have worried, though; the mere mention of New York City made her light up like Trafalgar Square at Christmastime.

"Oh my God!" she said, grinning madly. "I love it! You _have_ to apply, Mark; it will be such a grand adventure!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" she said emphatically. "And I could get on with something there, like oh, with _Vogue_ or _Cosmo_…. Oh, when could we leave?"

He laughed. "Well, I haven't got the job just yet, darling," he said. "I'll apply straightaway."

Within a few weeks after sending off the application, Mark found he had progressed past pre-selection and had done marvellously on the first interview, designed to test his verbal skills. He was by no means complacent; quite the opposite, he knew some of the other barristers applying for the position, and they had more experience and better reputations than he did.

Bridget had great faith in him, which he knew all along would be unwavering; her faith, though was not based on objective fact, but rather on the firm belief that no one was better than he was, and that he had it all but sewn up. He knew rationally from his perspective that this was far from the case, and every declaration of hers that the job was as good as his only served to twist him up inside even further; it made him increasingly anxious to think of how much he'd disappoint her if he did not succeed.

He spent every spare moment he had reading up on United States law, particularly the laws of the state he hoped to be employed in, so that if asked, he could converse quite easily in it.

This preparation was not without its cost. His temper was much shorter than usual, what with his caseload on top of everything; he found himself snapping at her with the slightest provocation, usually at her reassurances that everything would be just fine. He knew he was hurting her even as he did it, and he would try to offer apologies, which she seemed to accept.

He knew he had been tense and irritable during this process; he would more than make up for it once this whole process was over, job offer or no job offer. He just did not want to fail. He did not want to disappoint her.

………

There was nothing quite like gazing up at the glowing green of sun-dappled leaves against the bright blue of a clear summer sky; nothing like the feel of soft grass beneath the palm of one's hand or the breeze against one's skin. Being surrounded by all of this peace and beauty was such a change of pace, a change of scenery, from the high-pressure world in London to which Mark was accustomed that he felt he'd been transported to a different universe altogether. It was a long-deserved weekend respite in Grafton Underwood; he'd told Jeremy where he was in case of dire emergency, but no one else, then whisked Bridget off to stay in the cottage he'd lived in at one time.

His bicycle was still there, and after pumping up the tyres rather comically with a manual pump, he had been goaded into climbing onto the seat and taking a pedal around the garden. "Wait," she'd said, then bade him stop and climbed up onto the handlebars before commanding him to start pedalling.

He could not remember when he'd laughed so much, could not place the last time he'd seen her so happy and so like the girl he'd known growing up, with no cares for work deadlines or an extra few pounds on the scale. He could only think that this was something they needed to do more often.

Now they sat beneath an aged tree—she enfolded in his arms as he rested against it—not too far from that long-ago dance serenaded by the car's radio; the breeze was enough to lift some of her ponytailed hair up and into his face. Laughing, he pushed it to the side then bent to place his lips upon her exposed neck for a quick kiss.

"This is nice," she said drowsily. He could see her eyes were closed, could see the faintest of smiles upon her face.

"Mmm," he said, his cheek resting against her hair. He tightened his arms around her. "I agree."

"It's going to be a busy year," she went on. "We really do need to take time to catch our breath or we'll run ourselves ragged."

She was right, of course, when he considered the wedding in December and the possibility of a move to the US. "One day at a time," he said. "One hurdle at a time."

"Not that you consider our wedding a hurdle," she teased.

He chuckled. "Of course not. More like a finish line I've been running towards and I can finally see the banners telling me I'm close."

"And there, dressed in rose pink vestments, is the vicar," said Bridget.

Mark laughed out loud. "I think we'll need to have a chat with him, ask him for something a little more subdued. We don't want him brighter than the bridesmaids." He snuggled her close again. "What colour are they wearing?"

"You're sneaky." She sat up then turned around to lie on his chest. "I told you, you don't get to know until the day."

"What about coordinating ties?"

"Tacky," she said. "White ties, I think, with black outfits."

"What, I don't get to choose?" he said, his spirits light. "What if I wanted a pale blue tuxedo?"

She pulled such a horrified face that he had to laugh. She pushed herself up and, grinning, gave him a light kiss, then another one, then covered his mouth with her own in a deeper, more languid kiss. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close even after the kiss broke. They sat there gazing out to the landscape in the calm and silence of this perfect summer day.

"I wish," she said pensively, "that we could stay like this forever."

………

At the tail end of June, Mark began hearing murmurs that the law firm was in process of contacting the final candidates for a personal interview with one of the law partners himself; of the colleagues who had applied, he had only yet heard of one getting that phone call. Mark had himself not heard a word, and this had put him into a foul mood, even though he had known the odds of making it to the final round would be small.

Mark barely registered hearing the telephone ring on Saturday evening as he threw the pasta into the pot of boiling water for their dinner; it had been days since he'd heard any calls were being made, it was the weekend, and he had no reason to suspect anything but that one of Bridget's friends were ringing her for a chat. She answered as she usually did.

"Yes, hello?" she asked. He tuned out the conversation; he had to stir the sauce to keep it from burning or scorching. It was the sound of her voice shrieking his name that caused him to drop the wooden spoon onto the counter and sent his heart to racing.

"Bridget! What?" She had not even covered the receiver; whoever it was assuredly could no longer hear out of one ear.

"It's for you," she said, her voice overly hysterical and shaking; thoughts of injury or death to one of his parents ran rampant through his head. "A woman. Robert Abbott's assistant."

Without conscious thought he was suddenly at Bridget's side, taking the receiver from her hand. He cleared his throat before bringing it to his ear. "Hello, this is Mark Darcy."

"Hello, Mr Darcy. I'm Josie Winters, and I'm calling on behalf of Robert Abbott. I'm very sorry to bother you on a Saturday." The female voice on the other end was pleasant, even amused.

"It's no bother," he said. The sight of Bridget grinning and bouncing was distracting, so he turned away. "How may I help you?"

"I'm calling to see if you are available for a dinner meeting with Mr Abbott on Friday the tenth of July."

"In New York?" he asked, thinking at once of booking flights.

"No, Mr Darcy," she said. "He will be in London for the express purpose of final interviews. Your wife is invited as well."

He was slightly taken aback, and his eyes shot to her involuntarily. "Of course." She queried him with her eyes, grasping his forearm. He held up a finger, indicating he would explain afterwards. "Where?"

Mr Abbott apparently always stayed in the penthouse of The Plaza Hotel, and the dinner would be a private in the dining room of his suite. After advising him of the time and of her direct phone number should he have further questions, Josie said, "He looks forward to meeting with you, Mr Darcy. Have a nice evening."

"Thank you, I will."

He replaced the receiver on the phone cradle; it was barely in place when she began shrieking and bouncing again. "You got the job! I knew it!"

"I did not get the job," he said, feeling anxiety wash over him again. "I got an interview."

"But that's great! Hardly anyone else did!"

"But there are others, Bridget."

"Not many though!" She practically stomped her foot, scowling for a moment. "Come on, be happy about this! This is fantastic news!"

He took in a deep breath and realised she was right. Getting this far was a huge achievement.

"You will do wonderfully," she said. "When is it?"

"Friday night, the tenth of July. Dinner. And you're invited too."

"What, me? Why?"

"I don't honestly know," he said. "Probably it's a personality interview, and are asking you as a courtesy or a formality or something. It'll be fine. They're certainly not going to ask you law-related questions. You can wear your Valentino dress and be fabulous."

She smiled, looking a bit relieved. And then she looked alarmed again. "Mark," she said. "Something's burning."

At once he remembered the boiling pasta, the simmering sauce, and dashed back into the kitchen to find the pasta water had boiled dry and the sauce had burned to the bottom of the pan. He pulled them off of the heat and switched off the hob. Sighing heavily, he said, "Well. Nothing to be done about it. Dinner out."

She beamed. "To celebrate."

………

They went to a place relatively close to the flat, a place they'd been to many times before and where they were well-known; feeling happy and slightly playful, she'd put her hair into a couple of plaits, wore a short, light cotton dress with a floral motif, her legs bare, and on her feet she wore jelly mules. It was a warm and wonderful summer night, their collective spirits were quite high, and they'd each had enough wine to be pleasantly tipsy.

As they strolled home, with the sky darkened overhead, they traversed through Trafalgar Square; as always she ran to the fountain, sat on the edge, and ran her fingers through the water, the lights illuminating her smiling face. He sat besides her, said confidentially, "You should be careful how you stretch in that dress, love."

She giggled. "As if you've never seen my pants," she whispered with mock sternness before collapsing forward into him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him passionately. She twisted and he felt her leg covering one of his, as if she were thinking of climbing into his lap; he was both excited and mortified at the thought.

Nearby, he heard a firm throat-clearing, low and male. Bridget launched herself away, looking quite chastened, leaving Mark faced with a rather dour looking police constable.

"What's this, then?" he said, looking between the two of them. "Messing about with young 'uns, are you, sir?"

"This is my fiancée," said Mark; his voice was drowned out by Bridget's, though.

"He promised me candy," she said in a childish voice.

The constable looked even more serious. "Sir, please move away from the girl. Miss, how old are you?"

"Oh, really," she said, getting to her feet. "Durr. I was just kidding. I'm twenty-four." He heard the constable scoff a laugh. She began digging into her big patent leather handbag. "Here, I've got my—bugger."

"Yes?"

"My driving licence. I, um, left it at the flat."

"A likely story. Come on, mister. You're off with me."

Mark felt an ever-growing ball of ice forming in the pit of his stomach. "No, really, Constable. She is twenty-four. She's my fiancée."

"No, no," protested Bridget. "I'll go to the flat. It's just right over there." She pointed to the building. "I'll get my licence, and then that will be that."

"We can all go," said the constable with deadly solemnity.

"This is ridiculous," said Bridget as they began to walk. "There are real crimes being committed by real criminals and you have to bother us because I happened to wear braids." Mark noticed, particularly as they got closer to their building, that everyone they passed was looking at the three of them with a measure of curiosity as well as disgust.

"If in fact this story pans out, you were at the least skirting the boundaries of public decency," said the constable.

She made a dismissive sound. "It's not like I was going to shag him right there, for heaven's sake." Mark felt his face flood with his embarrassment.

"Bridget," he said harshly.

"Miss Bridget, is it?" said the constable. "Well, little Miss Bridget, we'll just see how this ends up for you both." They were in the building now, were passing their neighbours. Mark wished he could disappear, fade into the woodwork, or similar.

Once in the flat, Bridget quickly found her licence, and Mark found his voice. "Mr Constable sir, I am very sorry for the misunderstanding. I am sorry we got a little carried away out there. I've just had very good news, and we were out celebrating. It won't happen again." Mark shot an icy glare to Bridget as the constable scrutinised her driving licence.

"Well," he said. "I don't suppose any harm was done." Mark watched as his eyes travelled down to Bridget's chest then quickly up again. "I can see in the light in here that she is not underage." He gave her licence back to her. "Just watch yourselves."

Mark repeated, "It won't happen again."

"Yes it will," she said, making another dismissive sound. "No reason it shouldn't. We didn't do anything wrong. You just need to have your eyes checked, is all."

"Bridget, enough," snapped Mark. "Say you're sorry."

"For what? That he needs specs? He's the one that assumed I was underage. That's harassment in my book."

The constable actually took a step back. "Well. Good night sir, miss."

Once the constable had left, Mark exhaled long and slow before turning to her. He was furious. "Do you have any idea what just happened there?"

"Nothing happened, Mark."

"Did you see the looks we were getting, accompanied by the Metro police up to the flat? What must people have thought?"

"I don't know, Mark," she said coolly. "Everyone around here knows me. Who knows what they thought. Maybe that he was an old pal and he was coming up for a CD he'd loaned you."

"Maybe that'd be true," said Mark, "if you hadn't spent the entire walk in vocal protest."

"It was shameful, thinking that of you."

"He doesn't know me, Bridget!" he erupted. "True or not, I could have been looking at a charge that would have ruined my chances with the New York job, with any job in the law, for good."

"Mark, it was hardly my fault that he can't tell a twenty-four year old from—"

"You did not help matters," he said. "What were you thinking, joking around with the police so inappropriately?"

"I hardly believed he was serious," she said.

"Always assume the police are serious, Bridget."

She had no ready retort for that, just firmed her jaw. "Fine," she said at last. "In future, when—or rather _if_—you're snogging me in the park and I'm accused of being some kind of Lolita, I won't say a word."

"There's no need for such drama," he said. "You only need—"

He stopped short when she turned, but not soon enough to hide the fact that a tear had escaped and rolled down her cheek. She stormed off and away from him.

"Bridget," he said.

"Leave me alone." She went in to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

"Bridget, let me in," he said. She'd locked the door.

There was a long pause before she responded; her voice was unsteady when she spoke. "Leave me alone."

"I can't bear to see you cry."

"I'm not crying."

After a moment of silence he heard the lock on the door disengage before it swung open; she answered, her eyes teary and reddened. He did not say anything, found he could not say anything, so full of pathos were her features. The best he could do was reach forward and take her in his arms.

"Sorry," he said close to her ear. Her only reply was to return the hug. He was very much looking forward to this entire process being over.

………

"Welcome. You've been expected."

So nervous Mark had been about this dinner meeting that he'd had a terrible time sleeping the night before; for most of the evening he stared at the ceiling pondering the infinite possibilities the night's direction could go off in. Bridget was excited about the whole thing, could not wait to get there and meet the man she was absolutely certain would be Mark's next boss; this only increased his nervousness, his fear of disappointing her should he not get the job. She'd worn her blue Valentino dress and wrap, and her hair was swept up in a very lovely twist, her fringe gently curled under and tamed, a couple of loose strands prettily spiralling down and framing her face.

Arriving at the appointed time and the appointed place, they were not late, but Mark had intended to be a little early, and that added to the pressure of the meeting ahead of them had put him even more on edge.

"You must be Mr Mark Darcy." The woman who'd answered the door smiled, then extended her hand. "I'm Josie Winters. We spoke on the phone. Please, come in."

"Yes, of course," said Mark, smiling in return. "I thought your voice sounded familiar."

Mark kept his suit jacket on, but Bridget slipped out of her wrap, which Josie offered to hang for her. "You must be Mrs Darcy."

Mark glanced to Bridget, who looked to him, then to Josie. "Oh," Bridget said, "we aren't married. Yet, I mean." She shook Josie's hand. "Bridget Jones. We spoke on the phone as well."

Josie Winters must have prided herself on her inscrutability, but even still, a brief look of surprise flashed across her face.

"Wedding's set for Christmastime," Mark added hastily, praying that the fact they were not yet married was not a deal-breaker.

"Oh, pardon me," she said, "I thought the file said that you were. My mistake." She looked to Bridget. "We spoke on the phone?"

"Yes," said Bridget. "The day you called for Mark. I answered."

"Oh!" said Josie. "That was you!" She grinned a little sheepishly, then looked to Mark. "I was wondering, because your file said you didn't have children."

Mark prided himself on his own inscrutability, as well, and hoped his fears—that Bridget was perceived as childish—were not being broadcast.

"Someday," said Bridget, glancing to Mark again with a lovely smile, "but not yet."

After a moment of comfortable silence, Josie said, "Well, Mr Abbott is waiting. Why don't I show you inside?"

"Thank you," Mark said as Josie led them further into the suite.

As she tapped on then pushed open the door to the sitting room, an older, grey-haired man Mark could only presume to be Mr Abbott folded the paper closed and got to his feet. "They've arrived, sir," said Josie. "This is Mr Mark Darcy, and this is Ms Bridget Jones."

Robert Abbott's smile was surprisingly unguarded as he offered his hand to shake each of theirs in turn. "A pleasure to meet you," he said; as he shook Bridget's he clasped his other hand over hers warmly. "Both of you."

"If you need me, let me know." With that, Josie withdrew from the room, pulling the door closed.

"Care for a drink?" asked Abbott as he walked to where a mini bar sat, complete with a selection of bottles along with some tumblers and other glasses. "A martini?"

"Sure," said Bridget quickly; he knew martinis could be hit or miss with her, but clearly she was aiming to make a good impression. Mark agreed as well.

The martinis Abbott mixed up, while good, were a little crisper and more bitter than Mark was used to; he watched her sip her drink, watched her jaw tense with the tang as she did so.

"Not to your liking?" Robert asked with a chuckle.

"Bloody Marys are usually more my style," she confessed.

Lest he be offended, Mark offered, "She usually likes sweeter cocktails."

"Perfectly understandable. My own late wife was not very fond of dry cocktails." He sat back, sipping the last of his own cocktail. "I'm glad you could come tonight," said Abbott as he sat on the sofa again. "I have been looking forward to meeting you, Mark. Your résumé is very impressive for a man working in the field for such a short time."

"Thank you, sir," Mark said, feeling his heart race a little more quickly; had there been others asked to interview who had refused?

"Mark, please call me Robert."

Mark allowed a small smile. "Thank you, Robert."

"You're the last; I return to New York tomorrow," he continued, more to himself than to either of them. "Spoke with John Prendergast, Richard Barton and William Archer—whom I believe you work with—and wanted to speak to you before making my final decision."

Mark knew all three men, felt his stomach drop to his feet; they were all older than he was, well respected, and much more experienced. "I'm honoured that you asked me," Mark said, his voice sounding stronger than he actually felt at that moment.

A quiet rap then the appearance of a man dressed in hotel livery opened the sitting room door. "Sirs, ma'am, dinner is served."

Robert Abbott rose to his feet; Mark quickly followed, helping Bridget to her feet. She slipped a hand through the crook of Mark's elbow, then beamed a smile to him before looking to Abbott and the hotel staff person, who, without another word, bade them follow to the dining room.

Bridget was seated to one side of Robert Abbott, who took the head; Mark was to sit to his other side, putting Mark across the table from her. His first thought was that it was a tactical manoeuver—divide and conquer—then chided himself for being so suspicious. After settling into their seats and draping table napkins over their laps, a plate filled with food was placed in front of each of them.

"My grandmother's meatloaf recipe," said Robert. "The folks here do an admirable job reproducing it, down to the tomato gravy."

On his plate was indeed a slab of brown meat covered with a reddish sauce; on the side was a serving of mashed potatoes and a one of carrot slices. Mark wondered too if this was some kind of test. Following Abbott's lead, Mark picked up the weighty fork, took a corner off of the meatloaf, then brought it to his mouth. He was rather pleasantly surprised, and took a second bite. Bridget allowed her pleasure at the taste of it to show a little more overtly.

"Oh, very tasty," said Bridget, spearing some carrots, then taking a sip of red wine.

"I agree," said Mark.

Conversation moved to work-related topics and Mark felt a little more in his element; Bridget's frequent queries on the subject matter, however, jolted him out of the professional headspace and made him feel a little panicked. On the whole, although dinner seemed to be going pleasantly, Mark felt very much under the microscope.

As the plates were being cleared away, Robert Abbott asked, "Mark, on a more personal note, would the distance be a problem?"

Mark had no earthly idea of what he was speaking. "Distance?"

"Your daughter… is she with her mother tonight?"

Whilst Mark was still very much in the dark pondering why Abbott would think he had a child with another woman, Bridget obviously drew some sort of a conclusion and began to giggle. "I'm afraid there's been a little misunderstanding," she explained. "Mark has no children. Your assistant spoke with me. I'm afraid I was a bit too excited on the phone and made poor Josie nearly go deaf."

"She thought you were a child?" he asked, amusement evident in his voice.

"Yeah," she said. "Okay, maybe I was more than a bit too excited."

Robert Abbott smiled. Mark's stomach lurched again. Abbott seemed quite genial and affable, but Mark could not help but think it was a cover for disappointment or disapproval. Mark did not want to serve to amuse the man; he wanted to be taken seriously. No matter how nice Abbott seemed, a man of his position and power did not like to be proven wrong on even the smallest things.

"Come," the man continued. "Let's have some coffee and dessert."

They went back into the sitting room, where a tray waited with a carafe of coffee and a plate on which biscuits and dessert squares were piled up high. Seemingly picking up on the previous conversation, Abbott continued, "That does make things a little easier, should we decide to make an offer. Arranging visas for a daughter as well as for you and your wife would have been a challenge."

Since they would be married by the time the prospective job would be starting, Mark did not feel it necessary to correct the misapprehension; however, Bridget spoke up. "Oh, we won't be married until December."

"Oh!" he said. "I'm mistaken yet again." He sipped his coffee. Mark suddenly just wanted the night to be over. "Well, no matter, I suppose; arrangements would not have to be made until after then anyway." He seemed to be studying Bridget. "Theoretically speaking, what sort of thing would you be doing to occupy yourself in New York?"

At this Bridget got very excited. "Well," she said; clearly she had been giving this some thought. "I was hoping to get on with an American magazine or newspaper, do some writing."

Robert's eyebrows shot up. "Working?"

"Of course working," said Bridget quickly.

"Hmm. That would change things," said Robert. Mark felt dread wash over him yet again. "Again, theoretically speaking, I mean. It would change the visa type. I'll have Josie note that."

She smiled, then smiled at Mark, who did not feel much like smiling back. "Mark's always been very supportive of my career choices, haven't you, Mark?"

Mark cleared his throat. "Yes, of course," he said, forcing a smile.

"So where do you work now, and what do you do?" asked Robert.

"I write and copy-edit for _Londonium_, devoted to life in London."

"Very interesting," he said; Mark thought he detected a bit of a patronising tone in his voice. "Have you done any coverage of the Winston case?"

Mentally, Mark cringed. Kate Winston was a UK citizen being held on murder charges in New Hampshire after a child in her care went missing. Prosecutors were charging that she had actually murdered the baby boy to split the man from his wife because she wanted him for herself. The nanny tearfully claimed the child was kidnapped, but could not offer any description other than a white male of average height and build. Her defence attorney claimed there was no evidence of her involvement at all, and that by pinning it all on Kate, the police were failing to investigate the real crime… not to mention that the child might still be alive and recovered.

"That kind of story's not really within the scope of what my magazine covers," said Bridget, "but I've been following the story online. We have the internet at work. What a tragedy. That poor girl."

"You don't think she did it?"

"Of course I don't," said Bridget.

"Mark? Have you been following it? What do you think?"

"Not in great detail—" Mark flashed to conversations held over the breakfast table, and Bridget's passionate and indignant opinion on the matter. "—but if it's true that there is no evidence of her involvement, she should be released."

"But the prosecutor must have some reason to hold her, don't you think?" asked Robert. "It's best to keep her imprisoned lest she flee the country."

"It's barbaric is what it is," said Bridget. "She was a victim too."

"We don't know that," said Robert. "We only have what she claims happened. We need to put our faith in the justice system and trust that the prosecutor knows what he's doing."

Before Mark could have a chance to reply, Bridget said, "Oh, that's utter bollocks. Innocent people go to prison all the time."

"I think what she means," said Mark, furious at her outburst and putting every effort into remain calm and collected, "is that because the premise of the American justice system is 'innocent until proven guilty', the police should have investigated the girl's claims more fully before declaring the case closed, and arresting her. It is the essence of Blackstone's formulation, and, I believe, an opinion of your own Benjamin Franklin, that it is better that ten guilty men go free that one innocent person suffer."

Robert said nothing more on the subject, just regarded Mark with an unblinking countenance, looking very contemplative indeed, even as he finished his coffee. He then set the cup down, and rose to his feet. Mark took it as a cue; seeing them both stand, Bridget put the rest of her biscuit into her mouth, chewed and swallowed, then hastily stood too.

"Well, Mark, Bridget," he said, smiling reservedly. "It was a pleasure to have you here tonight."

That was definitely a cue. Mark extended his hand and shook Abbott's. "The pleasure was all mine. Thank you for the opportunity."

"Yes, sir," said Bridget. "I had a most excellent time."

He nodded. "I'll show you out."

Abbott stepped forward between the two, surprising Mark when he saw Abbott gently place his hand on Bridget's back to guide her to the door. It seemed he could not get her out of his room quickly enough.

"I had a wrap," said Bridget. "Could you get it for me?"

"Oh, of course," Robert Abbott said.

She smiled and thanked him. Mark felt even more miserable.

Once down on the street, Bridget let out a long breath. "Wow!" she said. "I think that went _really_ well, don't you? I think he liked you a lot."

He said nothing. He was too mired in his thoughts to reply, too angry at how badly things had gone and at her obliviousness to her own role in the interview failing miserably. She kept talking as they got in the car and during the drive home, bubbling with enthusiasm at the prospect of living and working in the US.

Once in the flat, Mark headed directly into the kitchen to pour himself a stiff drink. She followed him, carrying on with her observations. After he took a long sip, he spoke at last. "Bridget, stop."

"What?"

"Just stop," he said. "Tonight was a disaster, and I'm not going to get an offer."

"What? What are you talking about? He was nice and he clearly liked you." She came near, putting her hand on his forearm.

"He was nice," said Mark, "but I think it was clear he wanted to be rid of us sooner rather than later."

She furrowed her brows, withdrawing her hand. "What has you so irritable?"

"Because you can't behave yourself for one night, one very important night." He pressed into the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Bridget, if I hadn't spent my whole night fixing your mistakes, I could have left a better impression."

She looked stunned. "Mark."

"The night was a mistake," he went on, feeling the full brunt of his aggravation, feeling all of the stress and pressure that had built over the course of the application process on top of his usual caseload coming to an explosive head. "It has all been a mistake."

"You don't mean—"

"I feel like I've spent my whole life looking after your mistakes and trying to make you grow up—when you never will!"

Her eyes were wide and glossy; her lower lip was trembling. He could only think of that moment so many years ago when she had seen him with Julie Enderby; she looked as destroyed now as she had then. He felt immediately guilty for unloading on her so completely and unfairly. She said nothing, only left the kitchen.

He sighed, and decided to pour himself another scotch to calm himself before going to her again, to allow himself time to compose a proper apology. It was not as if they'd lost anything, after all; he still had his job and she, hers. The US job would have been nice, but in the end, what they had was pretty damned good. It was also not as if she had purposely tanked his chances; she had just been herself, and in truth, he did not want her any other way.

He set the empty tumbler down, took a deep breath, then left the kitchen and headed for the bedroom.

"Bridget, I—"

He stopped short. The bedroom was empty.

"Bridget?"

No answer.

As he went from room to room, his alarm increased as he realised:

She was not there.

* * *

NB:

Blackstone's formulation: "…better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer…"


	22. Chapter 21

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~4,801.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

I'm just going to post this, and hope there are no typos or missing words. I also hope you don't want to staple things to my head... er, throw things at me after this bit.

* * *

_Chapter 21_

He spent most of the night looking for her. Frantic, he had gone down the lift and run out the front door of their building, running up and down the street, looking for her in that distinctive blue dress. He then went inside asked the front desk if they'd seen her, but they had not. She had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth.

Returning to the flat, he thought he might start phoning her friends, but he had no idea where she kept her address book. It then occurred to him that if she were to go anywhere, it might be to Magda's. He rang their number.

"Hello?" asked a sleep-scratchy male voice.

"Jeremy, it's Mark."

"Mark? Have you any idea—"

"I'm sorry. It's just—Bridget's taken off and I have no idea where she is."

"Bridget?"

"Yes, _Bridget_. She's gone. Did she go to your place? Is she there?"

"No, Mark, she's not here."

He could hear Magda's voice in the background asking what was going on, then the sound of the phone clearly being snatched from Jeremy's clutches. "Mark, what's going on? Why would Bridget be here?"

He sighed, the image in his mind of Bridget's tortured expression too painful to bear. "We had a fight. I came out of the kitchen to apologise and she was gone."

"She's not here," reiterated Magda, "though if she shows up I'll be sure to call you."

Mark barely heard Magda's reply; it was that moment that he noticed something sitting on the table by the phone. It was a ring; Grandmother Darcy's ring.

"Mark, are you still there?"

He felt the murky chill of shock wash over him, as if time had stopped, as if he was in the process of becoming disconnected from his body. He managed, "I think she might be gone for good."

"What?" she asked sharply. "Are you mental? She's not gone for good."

He held the ring up; he had not seen it off of her finger since she'd put it on four years earlier. "She is."

"What on earth did you fight about?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I'll never get the chance to apologise."

"There you go again," said Magda. "What would possibly make you say that?"

He turned the ring to examine it from every angle, on the off-chance he had only believed it to be the heirloom ring and it was actually an amazing replica. No such luck. "She left her ring. She took it off and left her ring behind."

There was a long pause. "Mark," said Magda placidly. "She probably just needed some space after the fight. She'll be back. Go and get some sleep."

Sleep was something that would elude Mark that night. He paced around the flat; drank another shot of scotch, then began in earnest on the coffee; pondered phoning the police but realised she had not been gone long enough to report as a missing person; considered calling his mother for advice but knew this would accomplish nothing but getting Grafton Underwood in a froth. He considered that if he'd smoked, he'd have been through at least a packet over the course of the night.

Saturday passed with no contact and not much rest; he had located her book of phone numbers and began ringing up everyone. No one had seen her. He paced around, worried and anxious, until he sat down on the sofa trying to think what he could do next.

The telephone ringing woke Mark from the sleep into which he'd finally and fitfully fallen on the living room sofa late Saturday afternoon. Jolted into wakefulness, he leapt up and reached for the receiver. "Hello," he said.

"Mark, it's Magda."

"Magda," he repeated. "I was going to call you. Have you heard from Bridget?"

There was a stark silence on the other end of the line, then a heavy sigh. "Mark. Have you checked your mail today?"

"My mail? What?"

"Go and get your mail and bring it back upstairs."

Confused, he did as told, going down to the mailboxes, finding amongst a handful of bills, a postcard from Daniel from his holiday in Los Angeles, and a letter from a local company he had never heard of that had no postage on it, apparently hand-delivered. Remembering Magda's admonition to bring it back upstairs before opening, he did so.

"I'm back," said Mark. "I have the mail."

"Is there a letter from a company called Lacuna?"

Stunned, he said, "Yes, there is."

She sighed again. "Open it. I'll be right here."

The paper of the envelope and the letter—more of an index card in size—was very high quality bond, slightly off-white in colour with crisp Courier text printed upon it. For a moment, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, that he was imagining things.

The letter read:

Bridget Jones has had Mark Darcy erased from her memory. Please never mention their relationship to her again. Thank you.

"Mark?" came Magda's voice.

"Is this a hoax?" he asked, his voice quite escaping him as he spoke, then felt his anger rise. "Is she doing this to punish me for the fight?"

"I thought it must have been," she said. "I rang up the company. They assured me it was no joke."

Mark's heart raced a million miles a minute.

"It's not possible," he muttered.

"Apparently it is," she said gently. "They put adverts in all the local papers. As for whether she's done this to punish you—"

"Yes," he said, his eyes scanning the letter again and again.

Magda said nothing more on that subject. "If you need anything, Mark…"

"I need to see Bridget."

"I don't think that can happen."

"I need to see Bridget," he said again with more emphasis. "Talk to her. She'll come to her senses and come back, 'erased' memories or not."

"No, I mean you can't," she said. "It might be traumatic. 'Like waking a sleepwalker' was how it was explained to me."

He felt tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. His words at the conclusion of the fight had been unnecessarily harsh, but harsh enough to warrant erasing their entire life together, from childhood to the brink of marriage? The thought too of the last image in his mind would be of her looking so distraught…

"If she'd only given me a chance to apologise," he said. "But she stormed out and… she must have gone directly there. I just don't understand why… so drastic…"

"I don't imagine we'll ever know," said Magda. "It's not like she'll be able to tell us." After a pause, she said, "I know how much you loved her, Mark. I'm so sorry."

"Don't speak of her like she's dead," he snapped. "I _still_ love her."

"Sorry," she said. "If there's anything—well, just ask."

There was nothing Magda could do for him, and he knew it. He agreed, though, just to get her off of the phone. He wanted to be alone, to have time to process what had happened: She was gone, and it was to her as if they had never known one another. It seemed so unlikely, so cruel, that such a service could even be performed, that she would even consider it for a moment given their time together—

He would just have to go and see for himself.

Almost immediately, though, the telephone rang again. He whisked it up, hoping upon hope it was Bridget. It was not. It was his mother.

"Mark, we've just had the most curious letter," she said. "What kind of cruel joke is this?"

He did not have to ask. He knew. "It isn't a joke, Mother."

"It's not even possible," she said dismissively. "If you were planning on calling off the wedding, there are better ways to do so."

He felt adrenaline surge through him. No wedding. "Mother, I assure you, this is apparently perfectly serious. I was planning on going to this Lacuna place immediately, to get to the bottom of it myself."

His mother was quiet. "What happened?"

"We had a fight, she stormed out… and then, this."

"No signs she was not happy?"

The image of her tortured expression before she had fled the kitchen flashed up in his mind. "Not that I saw, no."

"Well, if anyone can figure out what was going on, it's you," said Elaine.

"Could you ring up the Joneses and tell them I'm working on things from this end?" He could not bear the thought of Pam calling him.

"Of course," she said.

He went into the washroom—the sight of her hairbrush, toothbrush, makeup churning up a myriad of emotions—intending on showering and shaving, and was shocked at his haggard appearance. There was nothing to be done, though, but to visit this place that had borne him such misery, find out why they would let anyone make such an important decision so rashly—or, perhaps most importantly of all, that this procedure was completely bogus, and it was just a clever way to allow someone to make a clean break. Yes, he told himself as he showered, perhaps it was 'traumatic' because it would force the person to confront what they'd done; perhaps it was 'traumatic' because the process was nothing more than post-hypnotic suggestion, and easily reversible.

Feeling refreshed and ready to take on the world, Mark dressed then went out, address in hand, to find Lacuna, Inc. He was vaguely familiar with the neighbourhood in Chelsea, but had never recalled seeing any buildings bearing this name. When he got to the address in question, he was rather astonished; it was a magnificent old brick building with a lovely little manicured park around it, statuary and a fountain creating a sense of peace, all of it surrounded by an ornate wrought iron fence. He made his way up the walk, then through the front door. A young woman glanced up at his entrance and smiled.

"Welcome to Lacuna. How may I help you?"

"I'm here to enquire about a… recent patient."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "We can't release patient information. It's confidential."

"You will find someone willing to talk to me," he said in a firm but vaguely threatening tone, "or I will bring the full force of the English legal system down on your company in any way I can."

The young woman, obviously not past her mid-twenties, stared up at him with wide brown eyes. She cleared her throat. "I can see if the doctor's available to speak to you." She picked up the phone. "Your name, sir?"

"Mark Darcy."

The phone slipped out of her grasp; her eyes again revealed her shock.

"You know my name," he stated.

"I do," she said, then added, "Yes, sir."

A conversation from months ago over breakfast floated to the surface of his consciousness, one which Bridget had mentioned meeting a friend who worked for a 'most amazing company', and he suddenly made the connection. "You know her."

"What do you mean?"

"You were—_are_—friends with Bridget," he said.

"Let me see if the doctor—" She picked up the telephone again, but he placed his hand over hers and held it down fast.

"I asked you a question—" He glanced to the name plate on her desk. "—Mary."

"There's no need to threaten my employees."

Letting go of Mary's hand, Mark whipped around to come face to face with a man in a lab coat. His features were impossible to read. The tag on his lab coat proclaimed his name to be Dr Mierzwiak, and judging by his accent, he was American.

"I am threatening no one," Mark said. "My fiancée has gone missing and I've received a letter from your company telling me she's had me erased from her memory. I demand more information."

"Ah. Ms Jones. She said you would probably come calling." Mark felt rocked back on his heels. "Please, sir, come with me."

He followed the doctor into the bowels of the building and into his office. Without words he directed Mark to take a seat, then sat himself at his desk.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions."

"Damned right I do."

"You're sceptical that such a procedure is possible," he said, interlacing his fingers.

"For starters, yes," said Mark.

"I can assure you that it is."

"And is it reversible?"

"It is not."

"So if I go up to her and try to talk to her about our past—"

"You must not, under any circumstances, speak to her about your past relationship," he interrupted, almost angrily. "Doing so could have an enormous detrimental effect. Are you familiar with somnambulism?"

"Yes," said Mark.

"Just as one must not wake the sleepwalker, you must not try to speak of your past to her. We have detailed pamphlets and video on how our procedure works if you—"

"And what would possess you to perform such an irreversible procedure without giving the patient time to truly consider the repercussions?"

"Mr Darcy," he said. "In a hospital emergency room, doctors often have no time to do anything but act on the patient, get the bleeding to stop, get the bullet out… everything else is consequently dealt with."

"So are you telling me that her showing up last night was the equivalent of a medical code blue?"

"I am."

Mark could only stare at him in shock. "But we only had one simple fight."

The doctor leaned forward. "If you're concerned that we acted in a manner contrary to what Ms Jones wanted, I can assure you that we did not. Given her demeanour, her state of mind, the vehemence with which she insisted this be done—well, I venture to say that from her point of view it was more than a simple fight." He looked down to his hands, then continued. "She did repeatedly say that everything, _everything_, had been a mistake, and she had to make it go away to carry on."

Oh, God.

Mark cleared his throat. "Did she fill out paperwork?"

"Mary helped her. They were friends, apparently," he said. "She told me that although a little incoherent from the trauma, she was in her right mind, and was sure she meant it. For our own protection we also record the pre-procedure interview."

Mark felt his stomach drop. "May I see it?"

"I can't release that to you."

"We'll see about that," said Mark.

"If you're threatening me with legal action to get me to release Ms Jones' records," the doctor said, "I can assure you you're not the first person to do so. The law is on my side. You will not prevail."

Mark felt his jaw tense. He knew the doctor was probably right. He and Bridget had not yet been married. He did not have the same legal say as a husband.

"Mr Darcy," said the doctor, his voice suddenly softer. "Mark, if I may. You have the option of having the same procedure done. It'll be easier than having to accept—"

"No," Mark interrupted sharply. "And it's Mr Darcy to you."

Dr Mierzwiak stood. "I think we're finished here."

He led Mark out to the lobby and did not leave, suspected he would not leave until Mark had; the doctor had probably had more than one angry ex refuse to leave or try to cause Mary the receptionist harm.

It then struck him: he was an ex now.

"Mr Darcy, sir."

Mary. He turned to look at her.

"She'll be okay," she said quietly.

He understood to what she was referring, and nodded. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, though, that he would not be.

………

In trying to forget about this seismic jolt to his life, Mark immersed himself in his work. Being in the flat that he had shared with Bridget for so long was painful enough, so he ensured that he only spent enough time there to clean himself up and sleep in the guest bed. Jeremy was as supportive as he could be, though his friend could not know how hard this was on Mark; Jeremy's relationship with Magda was nothing like what Mark had had with Bridget.

The loneliness he felt was unbearable. Having had her in his life for so long—that upcoming September would have marked nine years together as a couple—he felt adrift at sea without her, completely bereft and lost. It was the longest he had gone during their relationship without a word from her, a phone call, a kiss. He felt alienated from the world and from everything he'd cherished. With no one at home with which to share good news or to help bear bad news, day-to-day life was a drudgery at best. It was an existence, not a life at all.

There was also the reality of the wedding plans. He began informing those involved that things were on hold. He could not as yet bring himself to cancel anything outright.

Jeremy's typical cluelessness surfaced at work just two weeks after Bridget had gone. "Saw Bridget yesterday," he mentioned casually. Mark nearly dropped the papers he was rifling through as he stood over his desk.

"Did you?" Mark asked.

"Mm, yeah, she came by for lunch."

Mark clenched his jaw, tamping down his emotions. "How did she look? How did she seem?"

"Mm," he said again. "She looked really great."

"Happy?"

At last Jeremy seemed to realise his misstep, and looked to his friend. "Yeah, Mark," he said hesitantly. "She did."

………

Later that same week, Mark would receive a phone call that would only make his days even more impossible for him to get through. He was at his desk at work, moments before he was planning to leave, when the phone shrilled, startling him. He picked up the line. "Mark Darcy speaking."

"Mark Darcy, you are a hard man to track down."

Mark furrowed his brow. "I'm sorry. Who's this?"

"Robert Abbott," said the voice.

Mark was immediately contrite. He had completely forgotten about Abbott & Abbott in his understandable distraction. "My apologies, sir. How can I help you?"

"I was just calling to offer—oh, to hell with formalities, Mark. The job's yours for the taking."

He was sure he had misheard. "Excuse me?"

"The job for which you applied?" There was definite amusement in his voice.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, willing himself to focus. "I'm just a little surprised to hear you make an offer to me."

"You should be," he said. "Frankly, you were not at the top of my list going into the personal interviews. The men you were up against, as it were, had more experience under their belts." He chuckled. "I had nearly given up hope at ever hearing a non-pandering, honest response in reference to the Winston case, though in all honesty I never expected to hear the word 'Bollocks' thrown into the mix."

Mark's head was very nearly literally spinning. "I'm not sure I understand."

"It was a test, Mark. I don't like keeping people around me who tell me what I want to hear or puppet popular opinion. I want people in my firm whose first duty is to the law." He stopped for a moment; he heard what sounded like the man taking a puff on a cigar. "I especially can't abide men with wives who are impossible to be around. She reminded me so much of my late wife, that lady of yours. What a treasure."

His fingertips were white as they grasped the edge of the desk. "I could not agree more," he said. "I'm honoured by the offer."

"You don't have to give me an answer this moment. Discuss it with your lovely fiancée. But I'll need an answer soon."

"Yes, I understand."

"Feel free to call my direct line." He rattled off a Manhattan phone number; he only knew it to be Manhattan because it was where Daniel had settled. "Within the week, if you can. Though I'm hoping one of those other three won't need to darken my door."

"Yes, sir, Mr Abbott."

"And for the love of Pete, call me Robert. Well, I'm sure it's late there. Go home already to that lovely lady of yours. Goodbye."

Robert disconnected before Mark had had a chance to respond. It was through sheer will alone that he returned his own phone to its cradle.

Those things during the course of the interview he had worried about so much, those things for which he had chided Bridget and had ultimately led to their final argument, had been the very thing that had secured him the job. He knew it would be a regret he would carry with him all of his days, one that would make it difficult for him to look at himself in the mirror. He did not know at that moment whether to laugh or cry, particularly as he was not entirely certain the job offer would stand without her.

In the end, he opted for tears, nursing a shot of scotch as he peered out over Trafalgar Square through the window of the flat. What should have been an evening of celebration felt more like a funeral; he wanted nothing more than to share this good news with Bridget, but he knew that was not going to be possible. He had already made his decision: he would take the job, would call Robert in the morning New York time to let him know. The only question was whether he would be taking her with him.

………

It was always the same.

She would let herself into the flat, part angry, part chastened; he would offer profuse apologies, which she would always accept. He would kiss her, take her into his arms, carry her off to the bed he had not slept in since she'd gone; after they'd made love, he would go for Grandmother Darcy's engagement ring. She would always take it back with an enthusiastic affirmative, her eyes brimming with tears, and she would kiss him again then hold him close, murmuring apologies for ever leaving that night as she combed her nails through his hair.

He always woke alone in the guest room, always balled his fist in anger and pounded the mattress in his frustration. Always felt tears pricking at his eyes before he willed them away, rose from the bed, and went on with his day.

………

It would be four months into this shadow of an existence, still not fully accepting she was gone for good, that he would finally see her for himself. It was her birthday, a Sunday; she'd be turning twenty-five. He'd decided on dinner out at a Moroccan restaurant they'd always wanted to try but for some reason had never made it to, but the thought of going to a restaurant they'd often patronised made him physically ill.

That was when he saw her come in, surrounded by a group of her friends, women and men alike, that he did not know. For a moment he thought his eyes were deceiving him, that he was willing her to be there because he wanted to see her, but no, it was truly Bridget. She was wearing a knit cap and a jacket against the chilly night air, smiling brightly as she and her friends weaved their way through the tables towards a large one in the corner, directly towards where he was sitting. Not quite conscious of doing so, he rose from his chair; could it be that she was coming to see him?

As she walked, she pulled the knit cap from her head; it was only then that he saw that her hair was not braided and tucked up into the hat, but was actually cut into a bob, just a little longer than her chin, sleek and shining gold but so much shorter than it had been. He felt a little dizzy, took a step forward just as she came closer to his table.

As usual, she was not paying attention to where she was going, and she walked directly into him.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir," she said, looking up at him as she stepped back. He could plainly see she was wearing the necklace he had bought her for her sixteenth birthday, which surprised him. "Excuse me."

With that, she continued walking on with her friends.

He sank back to the chair without realising he'd done so. There had been absolutely no flicker of recognition in her eyes or on her features, nothing except the briefest flash of embarrassment one would expect when walking into a total stranger. She did not know him at all, felt nothing for him. All of the memories they'd shared, the love they'd had and the life they'd built… all of it was gone.

He could hear her voice, her laughter, rising over the din of the crowd—one he would know anywhere—and decided he could not remain. He threw down two twenty pound notes, more than covering the meal he had never even been served, and left.

Mark knew what he had to do next. He would be starting a new life in the New World soon; there was no better time to wipe the slate clean.

………

"Mr Darcy."

Mary was clearly quite startled to see Mark standing there.

"I don't think you should be here," she continued. "The doctor said that if you returned I should phone—"

"There's no need for that," said Mark; even he could hear the defeat in his own voice. "I came here… for the procedure."

Mary was stunned. "Oh." She looked down at the appointment book, ran her finger over the pages, which were peppered with first names, last initials and identifying numbers. _How many other lives had been so radically altered on pages past?_ he wondered. "Well, we have a spot two nights from now."

"Nights?"

"Yes. The usual procedure is to do it in your home. You go to sleep with your memory. You wake up without it, none the wiser."

"Oh."

"I believe the doctor's between appointments, if you'd like to have a pre-procedure interview," Mary offered.

Mark thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

"Great. I'll buzz him. You can have a seat over there."

Within a few moments, the doctor appeared. "I must say that this is quite a surprise," he said with a smile. "You're the last person I appeared to show up."

"Yes, well, I've had some time to think."

He nodded. "Please, come with me."

He was escorted to the doctor's office yet again, took the same seat he'd taken before. "It's rare, in my experience with couples that are splitting, that one partner has the procedure and the other doesn't. Usually it's just too painful. But I thought maybe you'd be the exception."

Mark smiled wanly. "I guess I'm only human."

After a pause, Dr Mierzwiak reached for a clipboard with some paperwork attached and handed it to Mark along with a pen. "I'll need you to fill this out before you go." He stared at the paperwork without really seeing it. "Then, when you go home, you will have to collect everything of Bridget's, everything of yours that has some association with her, anything she may have ever given you. This will help us to pinpoint—map out, if you will—where Bridget is in your brain so that we can most effectively remove all memories of her."

Mark looked up, recalled that she'd been wearing the heart necklace he'd bought her when he'd seen her at the Moroccan restaurant. "I don't understand. How were you able to remove me from her memory without her things, or without making her give up items that remind her of me?"

"You know I can't discuss her situation," he said with a scolding undertone. "Suffice to say, sometimes the map presents itself without any such things. As for items that would remind her of you… I hardly thought one single necklace would pose a problem."

"How did you—" Mark began before stopping short.

The doctor was quiet. "I figured you must have seen her, Mark. That's why you're here." He leaned forward, said quietly, "She insisted on keeping it. But don't attach any hopes to it. She probably has no idea from where—or from whom—she got it."

Mark nodded, then bent his head and began filling out the form. In two nights, all memory of her would be gone. He took great comfort, though, in knowing that even if he no longer knew her or loved her, she would always carry his heart with her.

* * *

NB:

A great debt is owed, of course, to _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ and the fictional company that does the targeted memory removal, Lacuna, Incorporated.


	23. Chapter 22

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,983.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 22_

New York was not the prettiest city in the wintertime, particularly the late winter when everything was starting to melt; it was inevitable that the snow was sullied with grey with the multitudes of automobiles and people living within its confines. It did have its charms, however, and the burgeoning springtime was bringing a special beauty to the city. From his flat overlooking Central Park, Mark had been watching the progress on a daily basis, and at the first signs of green, he smiled.

It had been a long, cold winter, indeed.

Now, though, came the promise of new life, just as he had his new life in the Big Apple, work that he loved and excelled at, work for the United Nations to which he had just about devoted his life. He had been able to rekindle his friendship with his most unlikeliest of friends from Cambridge, for which he was happy and grateful; he had never been one to make friends easily and those he had he wanted dearly to keep.

Starting over was never easy, and it certainly had not been for Mark. His mother had not understood why he wanted to take a job so far away from his family; the fact that it was an amazing opportunity seemed to hold no importance to her. His father seemed to understand a little better his desire to grab this brass ring, though they never really talked about it directly.

He heard the buzzer ring, snapping him out of his fugue. It would be Daniel. They had made plans to go to an exhibition football game there in the city; it was a little taste of home. He was looking forward to that, too. Absence, after all, made the heart grow fonder.

………

Some nights Mark would wake with tears in his eyes and not remember what he'd been dreaming about. He would get up, make himself some Ovaltine (the closest thing he could find in the States to Horlicks) and try to go back to sleep. Usually he could. Sometimes he couldn't. He would think about London, five hours ahead in time, thousands of miles away, and wonder.

………

He talked often to his former co-worker, Jeremy, who kept him apprised on the happenings around the office. He also talked to his mother at least weekly, and she kept him up to date on what was going on in his small hometown of Grafton Underwood. Usually the news was banal, unimportant; Julie Enderby getting pregnant again, her children for whom he felt pity; Elaine's new knitting hobby, from which he had already benefitted in the form of a woollen muffler; his father taking a trip to Brighton for a naval reunion. He liked it that way.

He'd been in New York since early December, a little earlier than anticipated; the arrangements had been slapped together more rapidly than was usual. News from home that Christmas, that New Year's, had been anything but banal or unimportant.

"I finished cleaning out the flat for you," his mother had said on Christmas Day itself, "and I brought the boxes you told me to bring back to Grafton Underwood."

"Thanks," he had replied, watching the snow fall outside of his window.

"We very much missed having you for the holiday, Mark."

"I know," he'd said, then had continued with a slight fib: "I had to be here. They started me working straight away."

"Everything was much different this year. We spent today all on our own."

"So you told me."

She'd fallen silent for a few moments. "It should have been—"

"Mother," he'd interrupted curtly. "Please."

Elaine had sighed. "I'm sorry."

He'd sighed too. "I am, too."

On New Year's Day, it was more of the same.

"We missed you at the Turkey Curry Buffet."

He'd said nothing in return.

Tentatively Elaine had continued, "She brought someone. Someone she apparently met just before her birthday."

"What?" he'd asked in astonishment.

"I just thought you might like to know."

He'd wanted to hang up. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm sorry," she'd said. His mother seemed to say that a lot lately. "She seems very well though."

"Happy?" he'd barked.

"Yes, Mark," Elaine had replied wistfully. "She is."

The thought of her being happy infuriated him doubly; how had she any right to happiness in another man's arms, as if Mark had never existed? How dare he be angry when he'd had the same chance to find his own happiness again and had thrown that chance away?

It infuriated him as he thought about it even now.

………

_The previous November_

In sitting in the flat he'd shared with Bridget, he began sifting through her things, their things, to give to Lacuna; her childhood things had, for the most part, never been unpacked. He'd stacked them into a single pile in the office. Box in hand, he started this odious task in the loo of their shared bedroom.

Picking up her hairbrush, he could only reminisce the times he'd pulled it through her hair, soothing himself and her alike. He dropped it into the box, along with her toothbrush, her comb and hairdryer, lotions, makeup and facial scrub. In the bedroom, he went to her bureau, his eyes going out of focus at the sight of so many of her things nestled there together as he went from drawer to drawer: the blue jumper that always made her eyes shine; her socks and even her cotton pants mixed in with hosiery brought back the most mundane of memories, of doing laundry with her and laughing and joking; and, at the back, folded carefully in pretty tissue paper, was the babydoll lingerie set he'd bought her for their very first night together, which she claimed she could no longer fit into, a claim he'd doubted.

Waiting for him in their closet were her dresses and skirts; all the way at the back was the notorious Jane Austen dress. As he held it up, chuckling and remembering their picnic, her wearing it to feel writerly, he felt tears sliding down his cheeks. There were boxes of jumbled photographs too, which he began to sift through; he smiled at the sight of her as he remembered her from so long ago, smiled as he recalled the resolution she'd always made to be better about archiving her photos into proper albums. The ones that tugged at his heart the most were the ones he found of her and his father, pictures he had never seen before, from when she was very young. In each of them, clearly taken in series, Malcolm was holding both of her hand, assisting her in walking; she, in a pretty flowered frock, her hair done up in pigtails, was laughing uproariously. Malcolm was grinning too, clearly having the time of his life with the daughter he had never himself had.

He found some of Bridget and his mother too, which he chuckled out loud to see. He particularly lingered over one in which they were baking a cake together; Bridget, ever enthusiastic at age six, had chocolate cake batter all over her face. He sighed. He remembered having taken the picture himself, thinking at the time what an adorable kid she was.

They all went in the box.

As he went to her bedside table, he found her journals, her notebooks filled with her writing; as his eyes scanned over the loops and whorls of her handwriting, he froze, a most profound realisation coming to him:

He was behaving like he was packing up her things after she'd died, and in a way it was no different; the memories he had of her were all he would have. To give them up would take away a huge part of himself, too.

He knew then that he could not go through with it. Not with packing up her things to bury them in nothingness, not with having his memories erased. He loved her, he missed her, and he refused to concede this to her. He would hold on to her in this small way, and their past could live on, even if it were only in him.

He gathered up her framed photos, though; having too many reminders of her around would just be painful. He reached for the one taken outside of the Opera House in Barcelona, but he hesitated, and smiled, tearing up a little. _No_, he thought, memories of _Carmen_, and particularly of 'Habanera', coming to the forefront. _This one stays._

………

Some nights Mark woke up from a dead sleep filled with fury, filled with 'if's: if she had not been so impulsive, if she had not been so immature, if she had waited to have an adult conversation about the matter, if he had only followed her immediately out of the kitchen…

He would have had the chance to apologise properly, everything would have been good again, and he wouldn't have been sleeping alone in this flat in New York. Despite his work, despite Daniel's friendship, he was in essence a very lonely man; by the same token, though, there was no woman he wanted but Bridget. No other would ever compare.

………

_The previous December_

It wasn't something he'd intended on doing. It just happened.

In continuing to pack her things into a plain brown boxes for storage, the most recent of her diaries slipped off the top of the stack as he picked the box up. It opened to a page, which his eyes were drawn to. Inevitably he began to read.

It was like she was speaking to him. Like he could hear her voice. As he flipped through the pages of the current year's diary, he discovered it was not a happy voice, at least the parts that stood out most to him.

_He doesn't talk to me about work, like I'm not mature enough to understand what he does, like he's still trying to take care of me. Wish he would tell me._

_Have never stopped loving him, but sometimes four years… might as well be fourteen. Always feel am just too many steps behind, and always will be._

_Cannot seem to do anything right, particularly in Mark's eyes._

_He's always under so much pressure. Am beginning to regret having suggested this field at all._

He had never doubted her love, and it seemed she had not either, but now, faced with her own private thoughts, he had never realised how much the pressure of his work had truly affected her, how much she had misunderstood the reason he didn't bring work home… and how, in some ways, he'd continued to act as if she were his charge.

He would have given anything to be able to change the past with her, everywhere he'd gone wrong.

Upon glancing down, preparing to close the diary and vowing never to look at it again, his eyes fixed upon another page. As he read it, he began to laugh.

_I suppose it's best to have the opportunity to compare—after all, it's not fair to judge when one hasn't had a right and proper sampling, and the crème de la crème, it's said, hails from the Continent—but you know, in my experience, an extremely local source has been plenty satisfying for me. (Ha! Is not always about chocolate with me. Or sex. Except this time it is. About sex, I mean.)_

He could treat her diaries, the full encyclopaedia of her years with him, as a curse… or, he realised, it could be a balm to him when he missed her most. He flipping it open to the last page she'd written in—10 July 1996—and felt very sad to see the subsequent page pristine and empty. It was difficult enough to read her effusive words about the dinner that previous night, but he was glad for them all the same.

In flipping forward through the blank pages, he was surprised to see a notation at the very back of the diary. 'Novel!!' it said, then beneath, 'NYE1988TSflat (because you have an appalling memory! Copy to 1997!)'

It made no sense to him, even as he read it two, three times.

And then it occurred to him where he'd seen 'Novel!!' before.

He raced to her old Macintosh, turned it on, and double-clicked the mouse on the icon on the Desktop. This time, when he entered the password—NYE1988TSflat, the date and location where they'd first made love—the document, her novel, opened to him.

He did not move from the computer until he'd read everything she'd written, from word one, page one, chapter one, through to all of the notes she'd made at the end for the direction she wanted the story to go in. As he looked away from the computer at last, he felt tears roll down his face. It was marvellous; the best writing she'd ever done. It was witty, charming, surprising—and it pained him to know that he would never, ever know the end.

Recovering himself somewhat, he turned off the password protection, saved the file to a Windows diskette, and once in the office the next day, he printed out a copy for himself and fixed it into a binder. He knew as time passed he would want to read it again, and he intended on converting that file from one word processor version to another in the future, so that he could always have it to print it again.

He showed it to no one. This, like the diaries, would be something of her he would have all to himself.

………

Robert Abbott had been quite saddened at the news of their splitting; Mark could tell that he was even a little disappointed. Mark had not mentioned straightaway that he would be coming to the US alone. He had waited until after that sighting on her birthday, after he knew all hope had been truly lost.

"I'd've liked to pick her brain a little more," Robert had said. "Interesting gal. And you seemed so much in love. No chance for reconciliation?"

Mark had only smiled politely. "It's unlikely."

"I won't pry," he'd replied. "I'm terribly sorry though."

_Me too_, Mark had thought.

One of the first things he'd done upon arrival in New York was phone Daniel, and one of the first things Daniel had asked him was if he'd brought his childfriend with him. Mark hadn't owned up to the fact that she'd left him. It hurt too much to admit even so many months after the fact.

"Oh," he'd said. "I'd been looking forward to meeting her at last—possibly even fully dressed." He'd clapped Mark on the shoulder. "Well. Childfriend or not, I'm glad you're here. Someone who can appreciate real sports, like football and cricket."

………

As June arrived, so had Mark's new project, headed by one of the partners he had not yet met. A woman of Japanese descent, she was striking in her own way, short, perfectly coiffed hair and very expensive suits. He thought from her position that she must have been nearly forty, but it was difficult to tell her true age by looking at her; her skin was quite smooth, no evidence of wrinkles, even though she was browned by the sun.

Her name was Tamiko Cew.

"Mark Darcy," she said, extending her hand to him to shake it. Even her hands were smooth. "You're the wunderkind Robert found over in England. Pleasure to meet you at last."

He offered a polite smile and shook. "Pleasure to meet you, too."

"I've been in South America on a case," she explained. "I'm so sorry we haven't had the chance yet to meet. I think you'll be such an asset to this project, though. I'm so thrilled to have you."

"I'm excited to be a part of it."

He put his money where his mouth was, proverbially speaking. Once more he devoted his waking hours to work. He spent some time on occasion with Daniel—who would goad him into other sports events and even art openings—or other co-workers. Some of his nights were spent working with his teammates on the project, but more frequently his nights were spent with their team leader, usually working, usually over dinner, but almost as frequently to cocktail parties and other social gatherings in his professional circle. He certainly could do worse than to have a well-respected lawyer opening doors for him—or at least pointing them out to him—in his career.

"I know you're curious," she said one night as she typed furiously into her portable computer.

"Hm?"

She glanced up to him. "How old I am."

He blinked. He had only given it the briefest of thoughts. "I hardly think it matters."

She chuckled. "It doesn't matter for men, I've found. But for a woman, yes, getting where I am at my age does matter."

"I thought women didn't care to let on how old they were."

"Thirty-five," she said almost triumphantly. "The youngest partner, and thirty-five."

He did not dare tell her he'd thought she was older. "That is something to be proud of."

She grinned. "I think so, yes." She typed a bit more then closed the top of her computer. "I think we're done for the night. What do you say to going out for dinner and a drink, you and I? It's Friday night, and I could use a little winding down."

It wasn't the first time she'd asked him out, and he was sure it would not be the last. He certainly didn't have anything better to do, and he was hungry. "Sure."

Dinner was at one of the trendier nightclubs in town, a little noisier and more crowded than he cared for. He was surprised she would choose this place; it didn't seem the type of place to which she would go. She claimed his arm to lead him to their table, one of those circular benches; she sat an arm's length from him.

"Sorry," she began, then said something he could not make out over the din.

"What?"

She slid closer to him. "I said I didn't think it would be so packed in the middle of the week."

He chuckled. "It is, after all, the city that never sleeps."

She smiled. "The food is really very good." She placed her hand on his arm, then pointed to an item the menu. "I can absolutely recommend the steak," she said, leaning in so close he could smell her perfume, hints of amber and spice, a perfume he did not care for at all, so different from anything Bridget would have ever worn. "You will find none better in the whole city."

"I'll go with your recommendation," he said, folding the menu shut. Within a moment an attentive server came by to take their order and promised the wine would be out momentarily.

She was still sitting very close to him, through the delivery of their drinks, even though they were not talking all that much. He wished she'd sit back; the perfume was giving him a bit of a headache and made him feel like he was going to sneeze. To his relief, when their steaks arrived, she sat back and away from him in order to cut it up.

After she had, though, she moved close again to brush her fingers on his lapel, surprising him. "Bit of salad on you."

"Oh," he said. "Thanks."

She chewed her dainty little morsels of steak but watched him the whole while, to the point of almost discomfort on Mark's part. "Seeing as we've set aside work for the night," she said at last, "do you mind if we talk as friends?"

He didn't really think of her as a friend, but agreed anyway.

"Robert told me about your fiancée, Mark. Said she was a really nice, really sweet girl. Does she mind us spending so much time together?"

He cleared his throat. "She did not come with me," he said quietly.

"Oh!" she said. "Did she stay in London to keep the home fires burning?"

"She… we are no longer together."

"Oh," she said again, this time with a more sympathetic tone, putting her well-manicured hand on his forearm. "I am sorry."

He did not respond.

"If I can do anything to help, please let me know," she continued, squeezing her hand briefly before removing it.

Despite her headache-inducing scent, the evening turned out pleasantly enough; the food was excellent, the wine was divine, and she was quite personable. She drove him back to his building, telling him he could come in an hour later than usual the next day because of the progress they'd made that evening. He thanked her and headed up to his flat.

In thinking back through the evening, through previous social occasions with which he had accompanied her, he realised he admired her efficiency when working, her adeptness in social situations, her ability in extricating herself from unwanted conversations, and her wisdom in knowing when silence was more important than speaking. Tamiko was a valuable mentor in this regard, but in considering these qualities, invariably his thoughts turned to Bridget… and how much he had loved the way she could just say what she felt, how she could take an insult, turn it on its ear, and charm the person making the insult into adoring her.

Feeling a bit maudlin, he turned to Bridget herself via her words, and found some of the passages he'd marked in her novel that had made him laugh in the past.

………

Just a week past his thirtieth birthday, Mark did something he rarely did. It was not his mother's phone call that had triggered it directly, though the call certainly did not help.

"I don't mean to keep bringing this up with you," she said unsurely, "but I thought you might like to know." He knew what was coming next. "She's still seeing that same fellow. Peter's his name. Pam can't stop talking about him, to the point of excess. She thinks—well, she thinks they may name the day soon."

"Ah," he'd said. An engagement.

"If she hadn't done what she'd done…" said Elaine, trailing off; he knew that Bridget's decision had hurt his mother and father too, as they had always thought of her as a daughter, and now they were simply friends of her parents. They still loved her, though; still thought of her as a daughter.

"I know, Mother," he'd said.

"And I know they still love you, deep down." He had been snubbed completely this past Christmas time, his birthday. Elaine had told him that they, particularly Colin, had been a little angry at Mark, had blamed him. He suspected Pam's going on about this new boyfriend was a way to get back at his mother. He knew that it hurt her, too.

"I don't know about that."

Elaine was quiet for a few moments. "I know it's still so hard on you," Elaine continued. "Particularly now."

At first he was not sure to what his mother was referring, but in looking at the calendar again, he knew. Had Bridget and he still been together, they would have marked their tenth anniversary together that day.

"Yes," he said.

"Know that you are in our thoughts."

"I know."

"Take care of yourself."

He decided to take care of himself by buying himself a bottle of Macallan and drinking from it until he passed out.

………

"You wanted to speak with me?"

Mark closed the door behind him and walked further into Tamiko's office. They'd been working closely together for four months now. Their collective project was so far ahead of schedule that they were even now concluding it, so he wasn't worried about censure.

"Yes, thank you for coming so quickly." She tapped a few times on her keyboard, then turned to Mark, fixing her dark eyes on him. "I just wanted to let you know how very impressed we have all been here at Abbott & Abbott."

"Thank you," he said. "I'm glad to have lived up to expectation."

"Mark, you have more than lived up to them. You've exceeded them, and I'm sorry that our professional collaboration is coming to an end. But, back on subject, I've called you in today on Robert's behalf." She went through a stack of papers on her desk, then found what she was looking for, a manila folder that looked much like the others there. "The contract under which you initially were hired expires at the end of the year. We would very much like to extend that contract for another year."

He pulled his lips tight, not wanting to show how much this pleased him, then nodded. "I'd like that very much. Thank you."

She beamed a smile. "I'm so glad you're accepting," she said, relaxing a little, handing him the folder, which he would review later, not that he was expecting legal trickery in the contract. "It really has been a joy working with you."

"I appreciate that," he said, tucking the folder under his arm. "Thank you."

"You are more than welcome." She turned to her calendar. "You know, Friday night's the New York Law Society Annual Black and White charity event. I would really like for you to accompany me."

He'd heard that this event was over a thousand dollars a plate; the cost was not a problem for him, but he had heard that the event was sold out, and by invitation only to boot.

"I've already got the ticket covered," she said, seemingly reading his mind. "Robert's stuck in Geneva and he generously offered his seat for whomever I chose to give it to."

"I'd be honoured," he said; he had no other plans. "Thank you."

"Excellent," she said, smiling again. "Time to pull out your tuxedo and have it pressed," she added with a wink.

He chuckled. It really would be a fantastic opportunity, direct access to so many prominent names in the legal community. He then excused himself to finish his debrief and took himself and his new contract back to his desk.

He could not help but daydream a little, though; he imagined taking Bridget to an event like this, imagined her dressed in something beautiful, being her sparkling and witty self, and making the other women look like drab statues.

………

He never saw it coming.

The dinner was pleasant but frankly too dully mired in work, though to an extent he had expected exactly this. He stayed close to Tamiko's side, since she could and did introduce him to what she considered the most important people there. He contented himself with being an observer more than participant, though when asked, he provided his professional opinion most willingly and knowledgeably. He seemed to strike all the right chords, which clearly pleased Tamiko.

In his observation, he did notice that while she knew just when to say the right things, she was not herself particularly witty or spirited. There were many moments when he could, in his head, hear exactly what perfectly honest thing Bridget might have said were she there, and even caught himself smirking at the thought of it.

Tamiko took his arm and steered him to the next group. "I'm glad we're all amusing you so much," she said, smiling too.

"Sorry," he said. "This is my first foray into the world of high-profile charity events. I feel like the long-shot horse in the Royal Ascot."

She chuckled, tightening her hold briefly on his arm. "You're performing admirably," she said.

As they approached an accommodating server for another refreshing glass of champagne, the music kicked up, and Mark watched as pairs made their way to the dance floor. "Mark," Tamiko asked, taking a sip. "Do you dance?"

He thought of those landmark moments with Bridget that had involved dancing. His heart sank. "Not really."

"Oh, you're teasing. You probably were brought up with ballroom dancing," she said, "and I adore it."

It seemed he would not get around asking her for a dance, so he asked her for the next song. She smiled and accepted.

Tamiko was not very light on her feet, and clearly not a natural dancer, though she was able to keep up with his lead. She not nearly as nice to have in his arms as Bridget had been, but with Bridget he'd always had a natural rhythm, anyhow. Tamiko looked like she was thoroughly enjoying herself, and he guessed that was beneficial for all concerned.

"Don't dance, my eye," she said as they turned around the floor. "You're a pro."

"I'm out of practise," he said, the similarity of her words to ones he had spoken to Bridget so long ago taking him slightly aback.

"Take a damn compliment, Mark," she said, grinning again.

He smiled. "Thank you."

At the end of the evening, they were in the process of returning to their table to retrieve her wrap when she ran into an old friend, whom she greeted with a hug and those annoying air-kisses women often offered to other women. Tamiko introduced Mark to the woman, whose name Mark would immediately forget.

"You look fantastic," said her friend, then added in a sort of mock-confidential tone as she gave Mark a pointed look, "It's about time you found someone."

Mark initially had no idea to what this woman could be referring… until he suddenly did: she thought they were a couple, romantically or otherwise involved. He looked to Tamiko, waited for the denials, the vehement insistence that they were only professional associates, but nothing of the sort ever came.

In fact, Tamiko only smiled and looked at Mark, then stepped closer to link her arm through his. "We were just leaving," Tamiko said. "It's great to see you, though."

"Great to see you too," said her friend, then, with a wink, added, "Have a nice night."

Mark did not want to embarrass her by offering denials of his own, but could this evening really have only been an opportunity to take him out as if on a date?

"Mark," said Tamiko as they left the ballroom, pulling herself close to him. "You seem surprised." He looked to her; she seemed amused. "Surely you realised I was interested in you."

He looked directly forward as if he could not trust his feet alone to carry him that way. He was not sure what to think. "You're my boss," he said.

"I was in charge of a joint project," she said. "One that, I should point out, is now over."

"You're still a partner," he said.

"Your boss is Robert, and you're under contract. You cannot advance in the firm in the usual way," she said. After a pause, she added, "I never thought of you as anything but an equal, Mark."

Outside the car was waiting to take them home. As before, they sat beside one another; unlike before, she looked to him, then slowly moved her hand onto his thigh. "I thought you were interested in me, too," she said quietly.

Her touch stirred something in him, much to his surprise; he may have still loved and missed Bridget, but he was, after all, only thirty years old, it had been well over a year since he'd had sex, and Bridget was a closed chapter in his life. He shut his eyes as her hand slid over his thigh to just inside his knee, grasping gently.

"I fill a void," she said, leaning in even closer; he took a deep breath, his senses invaded by that spicy perfume again. "At least… I will if you'll let me." He felt her lips on his jaw, felt her hand move up the opposite leg to grasp his hip, then felt her kissing his throat, nipping at his ear.

"Mark," she said as she put her hand on his cheek, turning his face to hers; her almond-shaped eyes bore into his, speaking volumes about what else she wanted. She then leaned forward to kiss him fully.

He kissed her in return, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. It was reflex, human want, human need; he couldn't help himself. It had been so long since he'd kissed anyone else but Bridget, though, that he could only think of her as he did so; consequently he responded quite ardently. It was probably not the void Tamiko had intended to fill.

Tamiko pulled back from the kiss to instruct the driver to take them to her place. He did not object. In fact, as they went up to her place, she leading him by the hand, he said nothing more. There was no preamble to intimacy, no nightcap, no coy flirting; she brought him directly into her room, and began tugging his clothes off as well as her own. She was not particularly sensual; her body, not very curvy; her breasts, not at all generous. Her technique seemed a bit clumsy and forced, though he admitted to himself that he could have been biased, having previously had a lover who knew him so well and was so attuned to his desires. The end result, however, accomplished the goal, and even as he reached culmination in the arms of this woman, thoughts of his Bridget filled his head.

He knew it was probably not healthy; he knew he had to leave her behind someday; for the moment, though, he did what he had to do.

………

It did not take long for word to spread—not that rumours hadn't already been buzzing about considering the amount of time they had been spending together—that Mark and Tamiko were an item. He did continue to see her, take her to dinner, sleep with her; he tried desperately to leave Bridget to his past, but sometimes, in the throes of passion, she would pop unbidden into his head.

At least it happened less and less frequently as the days then weeks passed.

He would think of Bridget, too, as Tamiko insisted they frequent the most expensive restaurants and be seen at all of the right parties, expected costly presents for the most trivial of occasions. He obliged because it was what was expected of him but a part of him would think how he would trade it all just for one more night of cold pizza on the sofa in front of the fire with Bridget.

In the spring of the following year, Tamiko enquired as to whether or not it would not be sensible to make it official. He considered this most unromantic of proposals only briefly before agreeing. It was as good a match as any for companionship, a good strategic move professionally. She was mature and stable. She was uncomplicated. He did not love her like he had loved Bridget—in fact, he did not think he loved her at all—but he figured that ship had already long sailed. He could tell she didn't love him, either; there were no surprise displays of affection, no playful pecks on the cheek, no snuggling on the couch with a movie, no cuddling in bed after sex. He was all right with these parameters. He had done love, and did not care for that pain and heartache again. It was time for an equitable arrangement with a companion who didn't ask more from him than he wanted to give, with whom he could tolerably spend his days and nights, on whom he could expend his sexual energy; time for a business merger resulting in a comfortable life. It was time to settle… in more ways than one.

At the engagement party at her brownstone in June, Mark introduced Tamiko to his oldest friend, Daniel Cleaver.


	24. Chapter 23

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009

Total words: 128,281.  
This part: ~5,305.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: You probably know the drill by now, hm? :)

* * *

_Chapter 23_

By a strange coincidence—and by dint of the timing of his contract—the wedding was set for December, though in this instance it was the first week. Mark had asked if it were possible to adjust the wedding date to another date, any other month, but he was firmly told that everything had already been booked, that it had been the only date available for the remainder of the year for the venue she'd chosen. He tried not to think too much about how it would have been approaching his second wedding anniversary with Bridget; Bridget, who had only wanted the romance and the beauty of the season and the snow; Bridget, who had returned to the flat euphoric after having found the perfect wedding dress.

He tried not to think about her too much at all.

There was no romance or sentimentality to the ceremony. She wore a white suit and he, his tuxedo. No church was involved. Only the wedding party was present at City Hall: Daniel was his best man and her maid of honour was a woman he'd seen around the office but did not know very well at all. Daniel flirted outrageously with both Tamiko and the maid of honour. This did not bother Mark; it was in Daniel's nature to flirt with any woman he could. His parents did not come; his mother claimed his father was not up to travelling across the Atlantic, but he suspected they objected to the marriage, particularly as his mother had on more than one occasion had asked him to rethink his decision.

They did not take a honeymoon; neither had the time nor the inclination. They did, however, take the bridal suite the hotel had thrown in when she'd booked the reception. The attendance at the reception was much more robustly attended; the guests included nearly everyone from Abbott & Abbott and just about every other firm they worked with, too. Tamiko had spared absolutely no expense.

He jokingly tried to carry her over the threshold. She pursed her lips and smacked him lightly on the hand before she laughed lightly. "Don't be so damn soft."

It was mid-coitus, she on top, that she froze completely and slapped him hard across the face. "We're married now, for fuck's sake," she snarled, rolling away from him, reaching for her robe.

"What?" he asked, returning to reality a little too quickly as he tried to figure out what he'd done wrong.

"Can you just fucking get over her, already?" she asked.

"What?" he asked again, completely lost.

Indignantly she pushed herself to her feet and tied the sash angrily. "_Bridget_. Your perfect little fucking English rose. I'm goddamned sick of you saying her name."

He blinked. He'd had no idea he'd done so, let alone more than once. "I'm sorry."

"I was willing to overlook it the first few times you did it," she said.

"I had no idea I was doing it."

She scoffed.

"I didn't. I'm really sorry. It's just that…" He stopped to collect his thoughts, and when he spoke his voice was gentle; he hoped to appeal to whatever emotional side she might have had. "Bridget was a part of my life for such a long time. We grew up together; we were each others' first love; we were together for so long…."

"She left you over two years ago, Mark," said Tamiko. "When are you going to get over it?"

He sighed, running his hand over his face. He honestly did not know if he would ever get over it. He knew, though, that he'd have to try. "Forgive me. Come on back to bed." He held out his hand pleadingly. He could start trying tonight.

She pursed her lips again, studying him intently. "You're not going to call me by her name?"

"I won't. Please."

As he completed the act, he focused on the present, not the past; it took him a little longer than usual, but he reached climax. He was not sure if she had; she was not usually very vocal, to the point where he wondered if she ever did. Exhausted from his day and his efforts, he soon fell off to sleep.

He awoke the next morning to an empty bed. She'd left behind a note on the escritoire.

_Mark,_

_Will see you at home. Meeting a client for lunch._

_T._

_P.S. You're going to have to try much harder. You got through sex, but not through the night._

………

Over the course of the next week and a half, Mark was taken to task for every misstep in the bedroom. They were usually too busy or too tired to have sex as frequently as one might expect of newlyweds; judging from the silent treatment he got after they did have sex, however, slip-ups evidently continued to occur.

It was not as if he meant to call another woman's name, particularly one who had erased him from her mind. At least he wasn't obsessing over Bridget the way he had when she'd first left, but the most trivial of things would still cause him to think of her in some way: a snippet of a song in an advert; a story in the newspaper referencing a film they'd seen together; young couples obviously in love, walking hand in gloved hand down the snow-blown streets of New York, stopping to kiss, beaming with unmistakeable happiness. He knew it was normal, desirable, for thoughts of her to fade into memory, but a small part of him was afraid that if he didn't keep thinking of her regularly he might forget her face, forget her laugh, forget her wit.

Christmas Eve Day came, and much to his dismay—and in a sense, delight—he found he had to work; working would at least keep his mind off of so many joyous Christmases past. There in New York, aside from co-workers, he had his wife and he had his friend Daniel. Tamiko, for her part, did not seem overly fussed that he had to work, predicted he'd be done in half the time he expected to be done. She herself had no particular attachment to the holiday of Christmas; her parents, whom he had never met, were Shintoists.

He paused in his work in the morning to give his mother a quick call to wish her a Happy Christmas. She was, as always, glad to hear from him; they talked for a while about how his work was progressing, how things were not significantly different in Grafton Underwood, but pointedly did not speak of the Joneses or of Bridget. He knew his parents and hers were still friends—fences had been suitably mended, for which Mark had been grateful, though his mother reported that Colin still seemed surly at the mere mention of Mark's name—but his mother had learned not to give him updates on how happy she was, how well she was doing, after wholly excising him from her life, her thoughts, her memories.

To his surprise he finished his work as early as Tamiko had predicted, so he went directly home. It was still early enough that they might have supper together if they could find a restaurant that wasn't Chinese takeaway. Tamiko hated eating out of paper takeaway containers.

He turned the key in the door then swung it open. The place seemed unnaturally quiet except for voices on the top floor of the brownstone. He put his keys down on the table in the foyer, set down his attaché and slipped out of his coat, concentrating on listening to the sound; the longer he listened, the more he became convinced it was crying of some sort. Furrowing his brow, he went up the stairs, not even bothering to slip out of his shoes.

He pushed open the bedroom door, promptly feeling a knife plunging ruthlessly into his heart at the sight before him; it was a double act of disloyalty, his wife and his best friend in all the world fucking on the rug in between the fireplace and the telly, both of them naked, she on top and as tousled and sweaty as he'd ever seen her. She was clearly enjoying herself very much.

He could not say a word.

It was not as if he'd loved Tamiko, but he'd at least thought they had the basis for a marriage partnership. It was the sight of her letting herself completely go over to erotic pleasure, the sight of Daniel continuing to grunt and groan and thrust up into her, that upset him the most. More than upset. He was disgusted and disappointed.

No more than a minute passed before they became aware of his presence. Tamiko stopped all motion and turned as the both of them looked at Mark. He watched as a smirk played across her features.

Daniel was the first to speak. It came as Mark retreated from the room. "Mark," he called. Mark continued walking straight down the stairs; he wanted to be anywhere but there, and he moved almost robotically in his shock and fury. Daniel called his name again. He did not stop. He put on his coat, grabbed his keys, and strode out into the night.

Mark took cold comfort in the fact that at least Daniel had never had the chance to try to seduce Bridget away from him.

………

Everything was uncertain. His marriage seemed to be falling apart in record time, and consequently his ability to remain employed in the United States was in jeopardy. He no longer had a flat of his own—having moved in with Tamiko prior to the wedding—so he took a suite at The Plaza while he considered what his next move would be.

There was no avoiding talking to Tamiko forever, so a few days afterward he went to the brownstone. He expected contrition for her infidelity. He never expected she would be confrontational.

"It's your own goddamn fault," she said. "Two and a half years since she left you and you're still in love with her, Mark; you still can't let her go." She marched over to his side of the bed, yanked out a rectangle from inside a drawer in his bedside table; he realised with horror that it was his framed photo of Bridget and him taken in Barcelona. "You still keep _this_ in your nightstand, for Christ's sake!" She then threw it hard against the wall; the frame splintered, the glass shattered, and his stomach lurched. "I figured she couldn't have you anymore. You were my husband."

He could hardly believe what he was hearing, could hardly believe she'd been rifling through his private things to know that was in there. He looked down at the damaged photo, a lump in his throat. "You have a funny way of displaying allegiance to your husband," he said.

"I thought a little shock to the system was what you needed," she said. "A wake-up call."

"Wake-up call for what?" he said. "That you've been sleeping with my best friend?" As he said it, he knew their friendship could never be repaired. He could never trust Daniel again, not after a betrayal like that.

Two anchors in his life were now gone.

She chuckled bitterly. "You wouldn't have noticed if I had been or hadn't," she said. "It wasn't a long-standing thing, Mark. And I knew you'd be home early."

At that moment he realised that he had been set up, that she had purposely done this so he'd find them.

"Everything kind of backfired though," she went on to say. "I don't want this marriage anymore. I'm seeking an annulment."

If she was leaving him for Daniel, she was going to be in for a really big surprise.

"Fine," he said. "Though good luck arguing that fraud was perpetrated against you when you're the one who suggested we make it legal, and you're the one who initiated an extramarital affair."

She scowled, gritting her teeth, and viciously accused, "I'll bet she left you because she wasn't satisfied in bed, either."

At that he could not help laughing amidst the smouldering ruins. 'Unsatisfied' was not an adjective he would have ever used to describe Bridget post-coitus. Without another word, he bent down, pulled the photo out from the wood and glass wreckage of the frame, and strode out.

Robert Abbott greeted the news of the split with a surprising calm. "I have to say, Mark, the entire marriage shocked me immensely. Tamiko and your Bridget were polar opposites."

_Your Bridget._ The sound of the words sparked sadness throughout him.

"I don't know if I'm comfortable staying on—" Mark began.

"Mark," he said, cutting Mark off. "You'll be interested to know that tensions in South America are heating up and I am days away from sending the one person most intimate with the case back to the area." He leaned forward. "I'll do whatever it takes to expedite a visa in lieu of a green card."

Mark smiled, nodding slightly.

………

If Bridget leaving was the end of a chapter, the annihilation of his friendship with Daniel and the implosion of his nascent marriage was the end of a book. Mark was a changed man. Love had broken his heart and shattered his soul; friends that were closer than brothers meant the pain they caused hurt all the more.

Within months of the Christmas Eve debacle, Mark found a message on his answerphone from Daniel informing him he was returning to London, that he had accepted a job as the editor-in-chief at a publishing house there. "Won't have to worry about bumping into me in the street," he said, his tone gruff, almost angry. "Obviously you don't want to hear what I have to say. Nice to know our friendship means that little to you. Fuck you." With that Daniel had hung up the phone.

Mark distanced himself, put up defensive walls. He worked, he socialised with his colleagues on a very superficial level; Robert Abbott was the exception, a father figure and a mentor worth looking up to, fair, smart, and hard as nails when he needed to be. There were other women, passing acquaintances with whom he shared commitment-free sexual trysts that satisfied the physical need, but not the emotional one. These dalliances were actually very unlike the quickies that had resulted from the pub crawls on which his former partners in chambers would embark, but he could not help but compare them in his mind all the same.

No man was an island, but Mark came pretty close.

Life for Mark would have likely continued for quite some time in this state, living for work, immersing himself in it; almost as if in a fugue state did he continue this routine, stuck in a rut, making a name for himself but not much of a life.

This fugue began to thaw, he began to wake from this dream state, during a conversation with his mother three and a half years later. He'd had plenty of conversations with his mother over the course of his living in New York, and some of them even centred around Bridget again. There was one major difference with this conversation, though.

"They broke up," said his mother, her voice sorrowful. "She apparently chucked him."

There was no need to ask of whom she was speaking. Mark cradled the phone with both hands. He wasn't sorry, not really, but the thought of her hurting did pain him. It also to an extent angered him. "She planning another visit to Lacuna?" he asked.

"Mark," Elaine scolded said. "That's not fair."

He knew in his heart that it wasn't. She hadn't known this Peter fellow her entire life, hadn't lost her virginity to him, hadn't maintained a difficult long distance relationship with him, hadn't lived with him or asked him to marry her (as far as Mark knew).

"You've been in America for so long," she went on to say. "You've been practising law there as long as you ever had here. We miss you terribly. All of us here do."

He knew what she meant, and he was disbelieving. "The Joneses have forgiven me?" he asked somewhat bitterly.

"Pam asks about you all the time. I tell her how lonely you are."

He clenched his jaw. "Mother, I don't need their pity."

"Mark." She paused. "There is no reason why you can't bring Bridget back into your life."

"I have told you before," he said. "I cannot discuss the past with her, our past relationship. They told me how traumatic and damaging it might be."

"Mark," she said again, firmly and condescendingly. "Is there anything in the rules that forbid you from forging a new one?"

He did not answer, because he did not have an answer to give. He supposed it was an unspoken rule, because while words could evoke a memory, scents, sights, sounds and other forms of sensory input could do so even more. He sighed.

"Think about coming home, Mark. Your father and I aren't getting any younger."

He considered that a low blow, practically emotional blackmail, because he knew she knew it would work. He had only seen his parents twice in the five and a half years he'd been in New York, and only when they'd come to visit him. He had not returned to his homeland in all of that time.

"I'll… think about it," he said.

Nearly six years was a long time—long enough for the girl he'd known and loved to have changed into someone utterly different. With expunging her memories of their entire life together, she probably hadn't retained any of the qualities she'd had when they had been together; her playfulness, her innocence with the way she always looked for the best in everyone, her inability to hold her tongue at crucial moments… all of that was likely long dead in her. After so long on her own, she was probably coolly professional, all business, serious about her career and her profession. The more he thought about returning to England, the more it felt right to do so. He told himself that he was a mature adult, that he was indifferent. He could handle seeing her in casual situations again.

He decided a call to Jeremy, with whom his contact had lessened to an extent over the years, was in order. He would let Jeremy know he was thinking of returning, and if Jeremy knew of any openings for which Mark could apply, Mark decided that would be the sign he needed to make the move back.

The stars had aligned in favour of the move; Jeremy was beyond thrilled and told Mark that they had just been discussing making an offer to try to woo him back to England.

Mark's return was set for August of that year. He packed up the life he'd made in New York, parted on amicable terms with Robert Abbott, and boarded the plane for Heathrow.

………

The estate agent he had contacted had found him a lovely house in Holland Park, though the things he had brought with him barely filled the place. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the modern kitchen, though—he fought a constant battle with the brushed steel doors—and the place itself was bigger than he'd thought it was from the photographs he'd seen.

It was also very quiet, and did not yet feel quite like home.

Getting used to life in London took less time than he thought. It helped that he was living a good distance from Trafalgar Square, and in travelling to work, he didn't have to go anywhere near the places that would remind himself of happier times.

That first drive to Grafton Underwood, however, would churn up a few memories of the past, during those years when he had made the drive between Cambridge and Grafton Underwood, then London all the way to Bangor. He was able to think of it with more fondness than pain, though. He told himself it was because the girl from that time no longer existed.

When his mother greeted him at the door she embraced him very tightly, more tightly than was her custom. "Oh, my darling son," she said, sounding very emotional until she let him go, then looked at him with something akin to concern, pursing her lips.

"What is it?" he asked.

She considered her words before speaking. "You've never been one to melt into a hug, Mark, but you never used to be this rigid. And a suit on the weekend? Isn't that a bit overly formal?"

He could see that this concerned her greatly. "I'm sorry."

He watched as her brows drew together. "No, I'm sorry," she said with a sigh. "Two minutes back home and I'm criticising you."

At that he couldn't help but chuckle. "It's all right," he said.

He had a very pleasant visit with his parents, but did not stay the night. He had to return to London for a morning meeting about a case he was taking over, a Kurdish freedom fighter fighting extradition to his home country, where he would most assuredly be shot on sight. His mother's look spoke of further unease at his mention of such a meeting, but she said nothing, even though he could tell she really wanted to.

"I hope you'll come up and visit us again soon."

He nodded and said that he would.

………

The return to chambers had been painless and easy. Some of the older faces were gone—retired or passed away—and there were plenty of newer faces around. One of those who had arrived in chambers after his departure to America, specialising in family law, was a tall, thin, brunette woman with a predatory look in her eye and a big smile on her face. She reminded him a little too much of Tamiko, but he was polite and friendly to her even as he dodged her repeated attempts to get him to take her out to dinner.

The holidays approached very quickly, and he realised it was going to be impossible to avoid the family traditions.

Christmas was spent with his parents. For Boxing Day, to his surprise, the Joneses attended dinner, even if Bridget did not due to a previous commitment in London. Pam seemed truly herself, even to the point of excess, hugging him and pecking his cheeks affectionately. Colin, however, was still cool to him; though the man duly passed the gravy and was outwardly polite—it was the Christmas season after all—Mark could tell that he was still upset on his daughter's behalf, even if his daughter herself could not remember a thing.

Only once, and fleetingly at that, did he think it would have been his sixth wedding anniversary with Bridget. It did, however, lead him to ponder more recent errors in judgment (marrying Tamiko) and other devastations (Daniel's betrayal), and it put him in quite a sour mood as a result. On top of this, Pam Jones could not stop reminding him about the Turkey Curry Buffet, unrelenting in her mention of it until Mark promised to attend. "Bridget is looking forward to seeing you," she said; "well, _meeting_ you, as it were." He suspected that this was not entirely true because Bridget's enthusiasm had always ever been inversely proportional to that of her mother's, and her mother's was pretty damned high.

As the Joneses prepared to leave for the evening, as Elaine took Pam off to see the latest of her knitted achievements, Colin pulled Mark aside for a private word. "You're a smart man, Mark, so I'm sure I don't need to tell you about how my wife and your mother have some kind of hare-brained scheme to reunite the two of you. You and Bridget, that is."

"Yes, sir," he said.

"I don't approve of it, not at all," he said, a crisp, bitter edge to his voice. "Not after what happened. People don't just remove… well. I don't have to rehash that either. I just don't want my little girl burned a second time."

Mark glanced down. He was still not sure what he'd done to trigger such a disproportionate response, but he nodded. "I understand," he said, "and I am no more thrilled at these attempts as you are."

Colin's jaw was set quite firmly. "I'm glad we see eye to eye on this," he said at last, then said nothing more as Pam and Elaine chose that moment to return.

"Lovely," said Pam giddily, clasping her hands together. "Just love the jumper your mother's made for you. You _must_ wear it to the Turkey Curry Buffet. Bridget will adore it."

Thinking once again of her mother's enthusiasm compared to Bridget's, and how it would be the first time he'd see her since her birthday six years prior, he vowed indeed to wear the jumper his mother had made for him. It would be the least difficult thing he'd do all day. "I'll be sure to do just that."

………

"I can't believe all you brought were trousers and dress shirts, Mark," his own mother said later that evening. "How on earth can you relax or be comfortable like that?"

"They're comfortable enough," he replied. He had felt quite fortunate in being able to take the week between the holidays off and spend it with his parents. It was the first thing he'd had in years that even resembled a holiday. He felt somewhat more able to relax knowing that if his colleagues needed to reach him, they could, thanks to the mobile phone he'd picked up on his return to the UK. He also now possessed a portable computer that was orders of magnitude more powerful than that first PC he'd had and Bridget's old Macintosh combined. He inevitably thought of the conversation he'd had with Bridget so long ago about technology: microwave ovens, personal computers, and the internet. He didn't care to reflect to what else she had been alluding during that conversation.

"Besides," Mark went on, "Pam mentioned your having knit a jumper for me. I could always wear that." His mother's knitting over the years he'd been away had gotten very skilful; she had learned to incorporate textures and patterns quite aptly.

"Oh, yes, well, she quite let the cat out of the bag, didn't she?" she asked. "It's a surprise for New Year's, and there are a few finishing touches yet to be done. You don't get it until then."

On New Year's Eve Day, she approached him with a bundle of dark green wool, the jumper itself neatly folded. "Here you are, your jumper," she said, beaming proudly.

He unfurled the bundle and hoped he'd been able to keep control of his features as he did. In the centre of the front of the jumper was the huge face of Rudolph the reindeer. It was rather appalling, but his mother had taken such care to make it for him, and he'd already promised to wear it, so he smiled and looked to her. "Thank you," he said with remarkable sincerity.

Elaine beamed proudly.

Later, as he looked at it lying on his bureau, folded so that its little reindeer eyes stared up at him, he thought of it as a sort of blessing in disguise. It would, he was sure, help to repel her attention, and get him more easily through this tough meeting filled with so many expectations for all involved.

_Tomorrow I will blow the dust off of this book, reopen it and carry on with it_, he thought with no small amount of irony, _for better or for worse._

………

When the Darcy family arrived on New Year's Day to the Jones' Turkey Curry Buffet, Mark had not quite anticipated the emotional effect being in their home again would have on him. Pam greeted him enthusiastically, clasping her hands again at the sight of the jumper. "Delightful, simply delightful," she said. "Such whimsy and spirit of the season. Your mother is so talented."

"Thank you, Pam," Elaine said, sloughing off her coat. Mark took it and hung it on the peg, the same coat rack that had always been there, one on which he had hung his own coat many times before.

"Bridget's not arrived yet," Pam said before he'd even had a chance to scan the room for her. "She phoned from the train to say it's running a bit late and that she'd take a minicab from the station."

"Ah," he said.

"Come on in," she said, herding the three of them into the living room. "Let's get you drinks, hm? What'll you have, Malcolm?"

His father as always went for some scotch; his mother, a white wine; and he opted for a red. It was not a great vintage, but he was thankful for the warm bloom of alcohol coursing through him.

The first group he encountered was Una and Geoffrey Alconbury, the latter of whom immediately launched into all sorts of legal questions. Mark was a bit brusque in his response—he had no desire to try to offer legal advice on such scant information—and wandered towards where his parents had alighted, past Colin Jones, to whom he tried to be friendly. In response the man only pointedly ignored him.

A short time after that, from behind him, Mark heard Pam calling his name with a cadence that frankly scared him. He knew what this meant. Bridget had arrived.

Slowly he turned to face her, his emotions a mixture of anticipation and dread. When he fixed his eyes on her, he felt his heart in his throat:

Those same blue eyes; that same lovely, shiny blonde hair, though just reaching the collar of her shirt; same fresh-faced, natural look about her, not all over-the-top made up like his female colleagues. He watched her look down to the reindeer on his chest, then up again; watched her look mortified at her mother reminding her of their childhood together, of playing in the paddling pool, age four, with no clothes on, which she of course did not remember. He took a closer look at her outfit, which was clearly something her mother had insisted she wear, as the Bridget he'd always known would not have been caught dead in it and would have put up a fight… a fight this time she had clearly lost. She had a drink in hand, and, to his horror, a cigarette she had been clearly smoking. It broke his heart a little, even though he knew it should not.

As Una Alconbury pulled Pam away to the kitchen with a transparent excuse about the gravy, he stood there with her, silent, unsure at all what to say. She spoke at last, cocking her head back, holding the cigarette aloft.

Everything about their conversation shocked him. He had been expecting a coolly polished woman brimming with confidence. Instead he had gotten a Bridget so like the one he had always known, nervous and saying whatever was on her mind despite the consequences; this took him so thoroughly by surprise that he said the first thing to come to mind—something stupid about the food—before stalking away, his head still reeling, still mired in his thoughts. Could it be that, despite the drink and the smoking, she was otherwise so utterly unchanged apart from not knowing him? The moment she had called him a stranger had echoed painfully in his head, particularly as he realised in that moment that his feelings for her, his love for her, had not diminished over the years, despite his best efforts.


	25. Chapter 24

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009, 2010

Total words: 128,281 -- I decided to fill in a missing gap here, no pun intended, so the total word count will end up being more than this now. Probably three new chapters in all in addition to what I already had.  
This part: ~5,738.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 24_

_"So."_

_He replied rather unimaginatively, "So."_

_"You staying at your parents' for New Year?"_

_"Yes." She made a little sound. "You?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer._

_"Oh, no, no, no," she said with emphasis, as if he were some kind of fool for thinking so. "I was in London at a party last night so I'm afraid I'm a bit hung over. Wish I could be lying with my head in the toilet, like all normal people." No, not fool; rather, some kind of freak, anything but normal to choose to be with one's parents for the New Year instead of with one's friends. He felt himself getting tense all over. She chuckled, then added with a sigh, "New Year's resolution: drink less. Oh, and quit smoking." Undoubtedly at seeing his staring pointedly at both the drink and the cigarette—which felt like a betrayal in and of itself—she looked a bit chagrined, and added, "Mmm. And keep New Year's resolutions. Oh, and, uh… stop talking total nonsense to strangers." She leaned forward and poked him in the chest, surprising him completely, causing him to tense again. "In fact… stop talking, full stop."_

_He had been expecting a coolly polished woman brimming with confidence. Instead he had gotten a Bridget so like the one he had always known, nervous and saying whatever was on her mind despite the consequences; this took him so thoroughly by surprise on so many levels, feeding his building annoyance, that he said the first thing to come to mind._

_"Yes, well, perhaps it's time to eat."_

………

Stupid thing to say.

He had just been revisiting the conversation he'd just had with Bridget—irritated and angry at his own words, at her for intimating he was some kind of freak when he was still in love with her, at himself for still being in love with her when she'd done what she did, when they could have had seven more years of love instead of the overwhelming pain he'd endured—when his mother's voice penetrated the haze and pulled him back from his thoughts. He turned to his mother, who looked to him with obvious concern. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

"I said how did it go?" she asked patiently.

He did not answer right away. "Fine," he said curtly at last.

"Mark, don't lie to me," she retorted.

"Not fine, then," he said. "She intimated I was some sort of aberration for staying in Grafton Underwood with the two of you for the holiday, and she was clearly put off—" He was going to say 'by the jumper' but didn't want to hurt his mother's feelings. "—by me. It's pointless. You should just stop while you're ahead."

She scoffed at him. "I don't know. It's not as if you have anyone else, and there's no reason why you couldn't ask her out. Start fresh. Or maybe even as a surprise, something her mum could arrange, to meet you somewhere nearby to where you live. Apparently she lives just 'round the corner from you."

He was not going stand for it—his mother hinting he was that desperate, her mother coercing her into a blind date when her feelings were evident—and consequently he lost his temper, lashing out with, "Mother, I do not need a blind date. Particularly not with some verbally incontinent spinster who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish and dresses like her mother."

However ill-thought-out and incorrect his statement was, it was even more unfortunate that she should be in the blast radius of this insult. He became aware of her presence behind him when his mother turned to look, and he looked too. She plastered a smile on her face, holding up the plate of food.

"Yummy. Turkey curry. My favourite."

With that Bridget passed between the two of them on the way out of the room; as she did, she looked up at him, the pain of his regretfully derogatory comment clear in her eyes even as she held on for dear life to that smile. Her eyes, though… it reminded him so much of the last time he'd said something to her that he didn't mean.

"Mark," hissed his mother as Bridget went well out of earshot. "I know you didn't mean that."

He thought about what Colin Jones had said on Boxing Day, thought about how bad an idea it was all around to try to win her back. He hadn't meant it, but he did not dare say so lest she, Pam and Una took it as a sign of encouragement. Instead, he only said, "If she dislikes me, then that's better for all concerned in the long run."

………

No blind dates were in fact arranged, and Mark congratulated himself for having survived not only the evening but for evading further efforts by the Grafton Underwood hens. Before he knew it, winter passed into spring. He worked hard as he always did, probably a little too hard, but he made time to socialise with his colleagues. He even had dinner with Magda and Jeremy at their home on occasion. Seeing their two children, Constance and Harry, made him a little wistful though for how things might have been had he and Bridget been married all this time. It did not help matters that Constance spoke so much about 'Auntie Bridget', wanting to know when she would be able to come over again and play, or if she was ever going to be their babysitter again. To their credit, both Magda and Jeremy looked sheepish whenever Constance spoke this way, but Mark would always dismiss their embarrassment by pointing out that Constance was only a child, after all.

He could not deny, even to himself, that the thought of Bridget babysitting was a charming one… though amusing, as to his knowledge she had no experience watching children. He asked about previous babysitting endeavours.

"We haven't asked her again," admitted Magda reluctantly, "because the two of them, two little partners in crime, conspired together to eat an entire chocolate torte."

It made him chuckle, which made Constance's parents feel a little more at ease, even as he wondered what a child with Bridget might have been like.

She really had not changed much at all.

………

"Mark."

He looked up from his desk to see the same tall thin woman who had been clearly after him since his arrival back to chambers. She smiled as he did so.

"Yes, Natasha?"

"A friend of mine's put me on the guest list for a book launch this evening," she said, sitting casually on the edge of his desk. "At The Ivy. I happen to know through Jeremy, Giles, et al. that you have nothing at all to do tonight, so I refuse to take 'no' as an answer." She certainly did seem to be ready to stay perched on his desk until he acquiesced.

He thought it might be interesting to meet authors; it was not like he would be completely alone with her, and the food and drink was guaranteed to be of the very highest calibre, so he agreed. She looked for all the world as if she had won a major battle. "Great," she said. "I'll see you at six. We can drive together."

The book turned out to be something by someone he'd never heard of, but apparently had created enough of a buzz that the place was awash in well-known writers and other celebrities. Mark contented himself at the periphery of spirited literary discussion with a glass of red wine in hand, piping in only when he thought he had something meaningful to offer, but overall disappointed at the shallowness of said conversation. Natasha was in her element, though, looking quite triumphant, and did not stray far from his side. She did, however, excuse herself from the group to look for the friend that had gotten her on the invite list. Shortly after that, the others in the group wandered away, leaving him alone amongst strangers.

He was quite in shock, then, when a shapely blonde woman turned, revealing herself to be anything but a stranger as she nearly walked directly into him.

"What are you doing here?"

It was Bridget, as surprised to see him as he was to see her, though by all rights he should not have been. He had no reason to suppose she hadn't stayed in the publishing industry. She looked absolutely beautiful with her hair swept up, the low neckline of her form-fitting dress, but the thing that caught him most off guard was the presence around her neck of the necklace he had bought her so many years prior. He tried to calm his still-racing heart and offered a casual reply. "I've been asking myself the same question. I came with a colleague. So how are you?"

It could have been his imagination, but she seemed to be regarding him in a slightly different way than on New Year's. She did not seem as nervous. "Well, apart from being _very_ disappointed not to see my favourite reindeer jumper again… I'm well."

This snappy retort was so like the Bridget he'd known and loved he didn't even notice at first how disparaging it was. He supposed he'd deserved it after the insult he'd delivered to her on New Year's Day. Between this and how stunning she looked he was quite distracted and could not think of a reply, from which he was saved by a woman's nasally voice:

"Anyone going to introduce me?"

The woman, obviously from a wealthy family of some standing, was blonde, slightly rotund with a ruddy complexion. She looked between Mark and Bridget, waiting for said introduction. After a moment's hesitation—during which Mark became convinced it was he this woman wanted to know, not Bridget—introductions were made.

"Ah, Perpetua," said Bridget with an obviously forced smile. He recognised this as Natasha's friend's name. "Uh, this is Mark Darcy. Mark's a top barrister. Oh, he comes from Grafton Underwood." He supposed she thought she was being clever in this introduction (with its somewhat mocking tone), as this was likely what her mother had repeated to her _ad infinitum_. She then turned her gaze to Mark. "Perpetua is one of my work colleagues."

Perpetua's eyes lit up. "Oh, Mark, I know you by reputation, of course."

At this, Bridget seemed slightly taken aback. He did not venture a guess why, though reasoned it was closely connected with her previously mocking tone.

At that moment, his companion for the evening returned. In an effort to keep the introductions going, he said, "Natasha. This is Bridget Jones. Bridget, this is Natasha. Natasha is a top attorney and specialises in family law. Bridget works in publishing and used to play naked in my paddling pool." At the conclusion, he sipped his wine, feeling slightly smug at her startled expression. He could verbally parry, too.

Natasha blinked in her own surprise. "How odd."

Bridget laughed nervously.

Unflustered, Natasha pulled Perpetua aside for a chat. Mark, however, heard nothing of what was said, because at that moment his eyes locked on a most improbable sight: his former best friend, Daniel Cleaver, whom he had not seen since he'd caught the man having sex with his new wife.

For his part, Daniel looked equally shocked to see Mark, was equally frozen and unblinking until he pulled his gaze away to ask Salman Rushdie a question before popping into what he presumed was the loo. The more Mark thought about it though, the more he realised it was not so improbable. Daniel was, after all, in the publishing business too.

Remembering his surroundings, he looked to the side, and found that Bridget had gone. He looked around and did not see her, but saw a crowd of people moving towards the main room. He thought perhaps the official launch was about to begin, so he followed them. As he entered the room, he realised Bridget was on the stage. Within a moment, she began to speak.

She had never been great at speaking in front of crowds, and coupled with her inability to keep close watch on what came out of her mouth, she was babbling away in a most incoherent manner. Mark was in turmoil. He was mortified on her behalf, but was also filled with an aching nostalgia at this reaffirmation yet again that she was the same Bridget he had always known. When she stumbled on Mr Fitzherbert's name, he wondered what she was trying desperately not to let slip from her mouth, what mental nickname she might have given him like she had for her cold-hearted arse of a teacher. There was a small level of amusement on Mark's part, too, in that what she said revealed none too subtly what she thought of the book itself.

They did not cross paths again, though he did see her one more time, standing by the drinks table, cigarette in hand and deep in thought. He knew the posture, knew the expression; she was chastising herself mentally for screwing up yet again. He made a motion to go to her, to reassure her that she hadn't screwed up as badly as she thought she had, when out of nowhere, Daniel swooped down on her, placed his hand on her hip in a very familiar manner, then swept her away towards the exit. Mark was stunned. How precisely did they know each other? Were they actually seeing one another?

How badly Mark wanted to race after them, warn Daniel that if he hurt her he would pay for it; but then he wasn't supposed to know Bridget that well at all, and how could he possibly explain such protectiveness? He considered briefly too on trying to warn her in some way not to get tangled up with a man who would be destined to break her heart, but her opinion of Mark, based on meetings thus far, did not seem all that high. It was unlikely that she would even listen.

If Daniel only knew he was leaving with the much-mocked 'childfriend'… Mark shook his head. Maybe they're just friends, he told himself, even though he knew it unlikely.

And then he wondered why he was giving it a second thought at all. It was over between them; he was dead to her, and she was clearly not interested in him without their shared history. When was he going to learn his lesson, and truly move on at last?

At that moment he felt a hand touch his forearm. He turned and saw Natasha smiling at him. "Penny for your thoughts?" she asked.

"I was just wondering if you'd like to go out for supper," he replied.

………

Without much conscious effort he found himself in something of a relationship with Natasha. They'd had a nice time at dinner; he'd had a bit too much wine and wound up spending the night at her house. Like Tamiko, she was too thin and sex with her was a little too mechanical. He also found that when they had sex, it was always he who did the initiating. He always came away feeling like she'd done him a favour by acquiescing; she honestly seemed far too concerned with not mussing her hair too much. He found this pattern of behaviour quite tedious; he wanted someone who was a little more proactive, a little more enthusiastic in the endeavour.

Despite this, he was convinced that this was exactly what he needed. He figured that perhaps she would warm over time. Clearly she adored the idea of being his girlfriend, beaming proudly when they went out together. He could be patient for the rest to fall into place.

It was some months later, the weekend of a big summer fete at the Alconburys', that he would see Bridget again in the unlikeliest of places; Natasha and he had taken a room at a nearby estate-turned-hotel, and he was quite surprised to see that Bridget—with Daniel, which made his heart sink—was there as well. When he first saw her, they'd just arrived, and her hair was snarled and windblown, but she lifted her chin and with every ounce of dignity she could muster she stomped right on by him and upstairs to their room.

Mark was distracted for the rest of the day, knowing that she and Daniel were on the premises. He hoped the pleasant, relaxing boat ride Natasha had planned would take his mind off of things.

It would prove to do exactly the opposite.

Daniel and Bridget had taken boats, too, and it was clear that they were having a wonderful, fun time. Natasha barked her disapproval but Mark only longed to be part of that fun; he missed the friendship he'd had with Daniel, but even more he missed the friend and lover he'd had in Bridget. Watching her in the boat, her hair lit up like gold, her smile rivalling the brightness of the sun itself, he was utterly captivated… and was nowhere near to being over her as he thought he had been, nowhere near to being indifferent as he thought he could be.

He fought the feelings as much as possible even though she made it very difficult for him. The following day at the picnic, she arrived curiously alone, and done up as a bunny girl; it was clear she hadn't been told that the Tarts and Vicars theme had been dropped. However, just as she had the previous day, she held her head high despite leering looks from the men and catty commentary from women, specifically from Natasha. He could only think that Bridget was how a woman ought to look, could only think how nice it was to see those curves again.

Their one and only encounter that day would leave him more determined than ever to focus on his current girlfriend. It would also leave him confused. When prompted by Una Alconbury, he honestly said to both her and to Bridget that he didn't think Daniel was good enough for her, to which Bridget retorted that Daniel would say the same about him, but added the puzzling, "given your past behaviour." As she said it, her posture brought back memories; the challenging look, the crossing of her arms over her chest, spoke of a defiance he had once known all too well.

However, he had no idea to what she could be referring, to what Daniel could have possibly told her about him. Aside from poor judgment in his first wife, the fact that he'd had a girlfriend four years younger than him during university but with whom he'd spent years and years, was about the worst thing Daniel could possibly have honestly said about Mark's track record with women.

Clearly, unsurprisingly, Daniel had not been truthful about their past.

………

Mark's plan to carry forward into the future would have worked quite well but for one fateful day, a day of explosions, of fireworks, of treason; really, Mark should have seen it coming.

Preparing for final arguments in court for the Kurdish freedom fighter in the upcoming week, he happened to be watching television in an effort to gauge the current public opinion. Television was not something he indulged in that frequently, but he thought he ought to know what the week would be bringing him outside of the courtroom.

That was when she appeared, surprising him into utter silence; she literally dropped into the scene from above down a fireman's pole. However, the cameraman was clearly not expecting her; he was too close, and she came down too fast for him to move. The screen was graced with a close-up shot of her rear end before both the cameraman and she fell to the side. She quickly recovered herself, as did the cameraman, and after a moment's babble the scene wrapped up.

After the screen changed to another story, he found that he was laughing to the point of tears, even as he wondered what on earth she was doing on television. "Oh, Bridget," he muttered to himself as he recovered his breath, "God, I miss you."

As he said it, he realised how true it was, realised no amount of time or distance was going to change how he felt about her. Perhaps it was fate, then, that that evening he had been invited to an anniversary dinner at Jeremy and Magda's—it made him a little dizzy to think it had been ten years since their wedding day—even though Jeremy had not been certain Bridget was going to be present. Natasha had been invited too. It did not mean he could not make an appeal to Bridget, if she came.

She had, in fact, turned up. Alone. It was revealed pretty quickly that she was no longer seeing Daniel, which also explained to an extent why she was no longer working in publishing. He did what he could to hint to her that he was an ally in that room of overly rabid couples, but it was not until dinner was over and she had taken leave of the party that he would get his chance to approach her.

He would in fact have his say.

He followed her downstairs and caught her putting on her coat. "I very much enjoyed your Lewisham fire report, by the way." As soon as he said it, he realised it sounded flippant, sarcastic.

She angrily yanked her coat's sash tight. "Thank you," she said without an ounce of sincerity as she turned around, frowning at him.

"I just… yeah, well. So." He decided to change tack, and asked, towering over her, "It didn't work out with Daniel Cleaver?"

She looked irritated, like she thought he was a dullard for having to ask. "No, it didn't."

In all honestly, he replied, "I'm delighted to hear it."

She was obviously even more irritated, and she let him have it: "Look, are you and Cosmo in this together? I mean, you seem to go out of your way to try to make me feel like a complete idiot every time I see you, and you really needn't bother. I already feel like an idiot most of the time anyway—with or without a fireman's pole." At that moment the doorbell buzzed. "That'll be my taxi," she said curtly. "Good night."

Having said exactly what was on her mind—as she was so good at doing, and one of those things he had always loved about her—she turned to go. He pushed down the irrational sting of her words, that she could ever think he could hurt her or think she was stupid, but she did not know him anymore. He only knew he could not let her leave this way; he didn't quite know what he would say, but knew he had to start talking. "Look, um… I'm sorry if I've been…."

It worked. She stopped. "What?" she barked.

"I don't think you're an idiot at all. I mean," he said, "there are elements of the ridiculous about you. Your mother's pretty interesting. And you really are an appallingly bad public speaker. And you tend to let whatever's in your head come out of your mouth—" At this he mimed words falling forward out of his head. "—without much consideration of the consequences. I realise that when I met you at the Turkey Curry Buffet I was unforgivably rude and…" He flashed back to that day with a renewed sense of guilt. "…wearing a reindeer jumper that my mother had given me the day before. But the thing is, um…" He faltered a little, but sallied forth. "… what I'm trying to say—very inarticulately—is that, um… in fact… perhaps, despite appearances… I like you. Very much."

To his surprise, she had begun to smirk. "Ahh," she said knowingly. "Apart from the smoking, and the drinking, and the vulgar mother… _and_ the verbal diarrhoea—"

"No," he interrupted firmly. "I like you very much—_just as you are_."

Judging by her reaction at the end of his little speech—blank, unblinking stare, slightly agape mouth—he seemed to have hit a target of sorts. He wondered, though, by her odd, faraway look, that if his closing phrase hadn't verged dangerously close to stirring the somnambulist.

He did not care. If the phrase stirred some memory in her that Lacuna had missed, all the better.

She said nothing more after he finished. She would not have a chance before he was summoned back to after-dinner coffee in a most humiliating manner by Natasha, snapping her fingers and calling him upstairs as if he were an errant puppy. It was something that Bridget would never have done, and something she looked quite horrified by.

As he sipped his coffee, ate his dessert, he continued to wonder about whether or not his words had had an effect. As it turned out, he would only have to wonder for another four days, which was when he ended up encountering her again. It was the day of the verdict in his big case… and it also happened to be her thirty-third birthday.

………

It was only supposed to be a quick stop for cigarettes for Eleanor Heaney, the wife of the man he'd successfully defended that day, but when the woman in the queue in front of him turned to him, when he saw who she was, he found himself a bit at a loss for words. He only politely said, "Good afternoon."

Bridget too seemed a little stunned, so stunned that her internal editor slipped and she muttered almost breathily, "Hi. You like me just the way I am."

Disbelieving that he had heard her refer to his comment of a few nights' prior, he replied, "Sorry?"

"Nothing," she said quickly and with some embarrassment. It appeared she might have said more, but her cameraman and sound man showed up to advise her that the man they'd been there to interview, Mark's own client, was already gone. She looked completely crestfallen. "Oh God," she lamented. "I'll be sacked. Did the others get interviews?"

He couldn't stand the thought of Bridget getting sacked. Coming out of his reverie, he said, "Actually, nobody got interviews."

She looked both surprised and sceptical. "How do you know?"

"Because I was defending him and I told him not to give any interviews."

At her open-mouthed look of shock, he decided at that moment to allow her to interview him. He knew her honesty and her integrity, and she would do right by them.

The interview went very well. He was pleased to discover that she was genuinely touched by Kafir's story, and not trying to use this to simply advance her career; she was actually tearing up as they talked. He found himself distracted by her very presence during the interview, but what surprised him was that she seemed to be distracted by him, too. He could not believe his eyes.

He thought about it the rest of the day, as he saw Kafir and his wife home, as he picked up a newspaper at the newsstand… and before he'd quite realised it, he was standing in front of the building for which his mother had so slyly provided him the address.

_This is where she lives_, he thought; he wondered if she'd been here all this time since they'd split. He went to the building door and found it unlocked; it was further reassurance that he was meant to be there. He looked on the mailboxes and found her name, found she had the top floor flat. He went up the stairs, raised his hand to knock, and hesitated.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself. "Just knock."

She opened the door shortly after he did, and to see her splattered with something that smelled strongly of oranges was something he found charming, even as he realised it was possible she was having company come over. Maybe even a new boyfriend.

"Oh!" she said.

"The door was open," he said. What reason could he possibly give for dropping in? Suddenly inspired, he held up the newspaper. "I came to congratulate the new face of British current affairs… but I see I might have come at a bad time."

"No," she said quickly. "Just my friends. Please. Come on up."

The genuine nature of her smile, the sparkle in her eyes, told him she was sincere. His heart was pounding in his nervousness as he stepped up into her flat. If he had been shown photos of a variety of different flats, he would have picked hers out instantly; it was so homey, charming and, yes, messy, even considering she had friends coming over. She went right for the kitchen. He followed.

Her dinner preparation was not going well; she had somehow managed to produce blue soup, clumpy greenish gravy, and no main dish at all. She looked a little stressed out, so he suggested she have a drink, which he poured for her.

"Happy birthday," he blurted, raising his glass.

If she thought he shouldn't know, she didn't say anything, only said, "Thanks." She chuckled; he sighed in his relief. With great sincerity, she asked, "Did I really run 'round your lawn naked?"

"Oh yes," he said, feeling his nervousness return. "You were four and I was eight."

"Well, that's a pretty big age difference," she said, clearly teasing him. "It's quite pervy, really."

"Yes, I like to think so."

A yawing silence opened, and he realised his misstep immediately, regretting his words. However, she was kind enough to let it slide by, asking instead, "What are we going to do about this dinner, then?"

At his suggestion they ended up preparing a frittata, and as they did so, after an initial tentativeness, Mark felt himself slide into the easy comfort of being with her again; conversation was light and effortless and they joked about her mother's and Una Alconbury's gravy obsession. In her own nervousness she repeatedly tucked her hair behind her ear, something she had always done without thinking, and had twice dropped the unused block of cheese before returning it to the refrigerator. When another knock on the door sounded, his anxiety returned; what would her friends think about his being there? He looked down, adjusted his tie, and hoped they'd like him at least a little.

While clearly taken aback by his presence, they were friendly to him, regarding him in a curious way; when Tom, the man of the group, asked if he was staying, Bridget was quick to jump in with an answer in the affirmative.

Her dinner was not particularly good. The soup was bland; the frittata was egg and cheddar and thus jokingly referred to as a big omelette; and dessert tasted like a too-sweet bowl of orange marmalade. Her friends, though, didn't seem too bothered; they seemed to not be concerned with the lack of perfection, but the effort and the affection that had gone into its preparation. He was, if nothing else, glad she had friends that truly, sincerely liked her for who she was.

Tom, at the conclusion of the meal, said as he looked between her other friends Sharon and Jude, then dabbed the table napkin at the corner of his mouth, "Well done, Bridge. Four hours of careful cooking and a feast of blue soup, omelette, and marmalade."

She blushed and laughed. "Thank you."

Tom continued, "I think that deserves a toast, don't you? To Bridget… who cannot cook, but who we love… just as she is."

"To Bridget," the three friends echoed. "Just as she is."

Mark barely heard it, did not join in himself, as he looked to Bridget; Tom's toast was clearly echoing his own words from a few nights before. The implication was not only that their conversation had impressed her enough that she had told her friends all about it, but was notable enough for them to make this pointed reference to it tonight. They in turn seemed to approve of him, for which he was glad; these words had apparently been reiterated almost to encourage him. He simply gazed at her, time freezing for that moment as he considered that perhaps she really was interested in him, after all. Belatedly he realised he should partake in the toast, and with great reluctance turned his eyes away from her and brought the glass to his lips to drink.

It was then that the doorbell rang.

………

Afterwards, at home, Mark examined his reflection in the mirror. Physically, there had not been much damage done during the fight. However, he still felt quite battered and beaten down.

At the door had been Daniel, of all people, grovelling with a bottle of wine for a second chance, clearly trying to weasel his way back into her life, surprised to see Mark there but the very presence of his former friend making him seem all the more determined to win.

It was unlike Mark to resort to physical violence, but at seeing what appeared to be the possibility of success with Bridget, at thinking of what Daniel had done to him, everything had come to a head, and he had challenged Daniel to a fight.

Mark had ostensibly won the battle and knocked Daniel out, but in the end had lost the war, because it was Daniel's side she'd chosen. She'd hurled words at him about how, despite seeming nice and normal, he was no better than 'the rest of them'. Mark had heard enough. He had turned and left for home without once glancing back.

Now as he stood before his bathroom mirror, daubing peroxide at the scuffs and cuts to his face, he realised that he'd had no idea that allowing himself even the slightest amount of hope would hurt so fiercely.

It made him all the more determined to put her behind him.

When the phone rang out of the blue, when the friendly, familiar voice of Robert Abbott on the other end of the line began talking of feeling the absence of Mark's legal presence acutely, advising that Mark's ex-wife was no longer with the firm, and offering him a full partnership, he thought it might just be another sign.

He would be leaving just after Christmas, just after his parents celebrated their fortieth anniversary together, just after what would have been his own seventh wedding anniversary with Bridget, had that fateful night in July never have happened.


	26. Chapter 25

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Total words: Lots. More than 128,281 now, for sure.  
This part: ~6,620.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: I know there's not much more to speculate on, but… please keep the comments speculation-free. :)

* * *

_Chapter 25_

As he continued to speak to Robert in making plans to return to New York, it came up that Abbott & Abbott was also looking to fill a position in the family law area of the firm. While Mark did not love Natasha, while their relationship was superficial and insubstantial at best, she was extremely talented at the type of law she practised, and told Robert so. "Your recommendation is as good as any vetting procedure I'd likely go through," Robert said. "I'll be in London next week. I'd love to meet with her." After a beat, Robert continued. "By the way, I've just seen something most extraordinary, and would love to get an explanation from you."

"Oh?"

"I'm sure you remember Josie, my talented assistant," he said. "I asked her to do some research on you, to build a case, so to speak, in asking you to join us as a partner. She located a very interesting video, an interview of you."

He racked his brain to think what interview he had done that could possibly be deemed 'interesting', particularly as he did not grant many interviews at all—and then he knew. He had only done one interview on television. "Oh."

"Yes, Mark. 'Oh.' Sit Up Britain. Your Bridget, as adorable as ever. What's going on? Do we have to arrange passage for her this time?"

"No," he said firmly. "We're… not on good terms."

"Could have fooled me with that interview. You looked gobsmacked."

He had felt gobsmacked, but did not care to concede the point. "She needed a favour, and I was in a position to oblige," was all he said.

"Mark." Robert chuckled. "I'll call you when I touch down."

………

Natasha's interview had, just as Mark had expected, gone wonderfully. She was thrilled to be moving up to a high-profile American firm, and made not-so-subtle allusions to the possibility of another merger of a more personal nature in the near future. He always demurred.

Everything was in place for their departure on the twenty-seventh of December. He needed only to make an appearance at his parents' Ruby Wedding party, then he'd be on a flight to New York and leave everything behind that should have been left behind in the first place.

He never expected what happened next.

At the party, he was speaking with one of the seated guests when out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure approaching. He turned; it was Bridget, looking inordinately pretty in a black dress with a low collar and her hair down and pinned to the side.

"Thank you for inviting me," she said quietly, glancing a bit pointedly at the snowman tie his mother had bought him and bade him wear.

"I didn't," he replied somewhat sharply. "It must have been my parents."

She pursed her lips tight. "So…."

"So," he said.

They were interrupted at that moment by Natasha, who needed him to go with her to begin whatever strange ceremony she felt appropriate for the occasion. He went to excuse himself from Bridget's side, but she seemed reluctant to let him go. "Listen, uh… I owe you an apology," she began as Natasha got farther away, "about Daniel. He said that you ran off with his fiancée and left him broken-hearted, he said."

Mark's head began to swirl. Daniel's fabrication about their friendship had turned the tables altogether. "Ah," he said. "No, it was the other way around. It was my wife… my heart."

She looked contrite; it was clear she already knew. "Sorry. That's why you always acted so strangely around him and beat him to a pulp, quite rightly. Well done."

It was not really over his ex-wife that he had fought Daniel, but could not very well say so to her, even if he had been able to find the power to speak; Mark was at a loss for words, something he was not commonly afflicted with. "Well, um…"

"Can we just, um… pop out there for a moment?" She tilted her head towards the foyer.

She walked away then glanced back to ensure he was following, leading him into an alcove in the foyer where some coats and gifts had been placed. "Okay," she said in a whisper, then turned and spoke properly to him, her tone tentative. "I just have something that I want to say. Um… You once said that you liked me just as I am… and I just wanted to say… likewise. I mean… there are stupid things your mum buys you. Tonight's another classic. You're haughty, and you always say the wrong thing in _every_ situation. And I seriously believe that you should… rethink the length of your sideburns." She paused, as if to put her thoughts back on track; Mark could not help but reminisce that he'd only kept them long because she'd liked them that way. "But you're a nice man, and… I _like_ you. So if you wanted to pop by sometime… that might be nice." She looked forlorn, her eyes wide and pleading, as she added, "More than nice."

"Right," he said, completely winded at her admission. She wasn't indifferent to him; she was admitting to feeling something for him, after all. For a lack of anything useful to say at this bombshell, he muttered, "Crikey."

All might have been well had someone not taken that opportunity to start striking a crystal glass with a piece of silverware. It snapped him back to the present, back to his responsibility, and even though he knew he should have continued the conversation with her, he excused himself and strode away, into the party and towards his parents, snagged up when Natasha pulled him to her side.

He could only think of Bridget's stunned expression as he had turned away.

He knew his father had planned a speech honouring his mother, but had no idea he was going to take the opportunity to speak quite proudly of his son as well; when Malcolm announced not only that Mark was leaving to take that partnership in New York, but that Natasha was joining him with strong allusions to a future wedding, he could not help but to glance back to Bridget. The devastated, embarrassed look on her face spoke volumes; she clearly thought he'd let her go on about her feelings when he knew this speech was coming. He was very much conflicted inside about their conversation, about leaving the next day—

_No_, he thought. _You cannot doubt staying the course is for the best._

His father went on. "So I ask you now to charge your glasses once again to Mark and his Natasha."

As echoes of "To Mark and his Natasha" sounded around him, one clear voice pierced the din as starkly as the sound of that ringing crystal with something completely different:

"No! _No!_"

Bridget, whose eyes were luminous and glossy with tears, pleaded silently across the room to him. He could not move or say a word. There was nothing he could say.

Embarrassed, she quickly backtracked and made it seem as if she were objecting to such a 'great legal brain' leaving England for America, then hastily invented an obvious excuse to leave the party. Her father followed quickly behind, but not before shooting Mark a poisonous look.

_It's for the best_, he told himself again.

………

It took a long flight to America, hours of silent contemplation save for the drone of the jet engines and the occasional rustling of newspapers and magazines, to finally bring Mark's thoughts into focus. He knew what he was doing was best for all involved. He needed to put the past behind him, put Bridget behind him at last, and this was the most effective way to do it.

Even though he knew it had not worked before.

Even though it was harder than ever to do now that she knew him again… and had admitted to liking him.

He shifted in his seat, and upon his eyes fixing on the sleeping Natasha, he wondered, and quite unexpectedly so, why he was fighting it so much. Bridget might not have remembered their past, but why throw aside the prospect of a future? He knew the answer, though; he did not want to risk the pain that could result from such vulnerability, pain he remembered all too well and did not ever want to feel again.

Could the possibility of having her love again override the memory of such pain?

"Mark?"

It was Natasha.

"Hm?" he asked.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said with a smile.

"Oh," he said, "nothing."

"Still thinking about your little childhood friend?"

He was too surprised by how accurately she'd guessed to say anything.

"I thought it was cute," continued Natasha, "how adorable her little girl crush was on you, but I didn't think it wise to let her persist in it since you were leaving. So I told your father we would soon be engaged, and that he could mention it if he liked."

"But—" he began, feeling a little dizzy, both at again how unknowingly right she'd been, and at the revelation of the jealous action she'd taken at the party.

"I know, you don't want to get married again right away, not after that first disaster," she said. "And, yes, I had to tell a little white lie that I had encouraged him not to say anything… but I felt it best to leave with a clean break for all involved."

He stared at her as if he didn't know her at all. Such toxic machinations he was suddenly certain he could not live with for the rest of his life. Those too he remembered all too well. He turned away to look out the window, and did not say a word, only mentally chastised himself for having taken the coward's way out yet again.

………

With the hum of the engines permeating everything around him, the cabin lights low, Mark dialled the in-flight telephone, then leaned back into his seat.

"Robert Abbott," came a man's voice, smooth and professional as always, though Mark could detect the slightest hint of irritation.

"Robert," said Mark, cradling the phone in his hand, looking out of the window, at the top edge of the sun-dappled clouds. "It's Mark."

"Mark? What the devil is going on?"

Mark sighed. "I'm sorry. I can explain."

"Please do explain," he said, "why Ms Glenville is here and you are not."

Even though he knew what he wanted to say, he hesitated before speaking. "There is a chance, the slightest hint of a possibility of a chance, that Bridget and I—" He stopped short. "That we could make it work. I… have to go back. I am terribly, terribly sorry."

Robert was silent. Mark was sure this bridge had not only been burned beyond recognition, but was now reduced to ashes floating downstream in the river below. "I see," he said at last. "A _chance_ to make it work. Not even anything certain. Well." He cleared his throat; Mark felt himself propelled back in time to that initial meeting, that interview so long ago, and felt his stomach turn leaden. Robert continued, "So I don't suppose bringing her along would have been an option yet."

Mark was as confused at the more thoughtful tone his words had taken as he was at the words themselves. "Pardon?"

"Mark, as much as we'll miss having you, you have to be true to yourself, and if there's a chance with her, you'd better damn well grab it and hold on. I could see even then, in that one meeting we all had together, how much you loved each other. And if you love her half as much as I loved my late wife… I could never live with myself knowing you'd had the chance and didn't take it."

Mark felt unexpectedly emotional. "Thank you, sir. I was hoping you'd understand."

"Bah," said Robert. "I'm only sorry I didn't know sooner, 'cause I wouldn't have put you through the trouble of flying back and forth. Please, keep in touch, and send my fond greetings to that lovely lady of yours."

"She's not mine again yet," Mark said; he dearly wished he could have passed along his greeting.

Robert chuckled. "Oh, I think she will be. She's a sensible gal."

………

He only stopped at his house long enough to drop off the bags, take a shower, shave, and change out of the suit; he was grateful that he had not yet had his things packed up and shipped back to New York, that he still could cancel doing so altogether. And he would. He thought about work, but only briefly; although he was technically unemployed, he was not worried. He was certainly comfortable in that regard, and material things were the least of his concerns, anyway.

He took in a great breath, slipped on his winter coat, and strode out into the night.

He was thankful that their respective places were within walking distance. He made it in good time, but as he rounded the corner towards her building he saw that a Mini Cooper was idling in front, sending puffs of white into the chilly air, and that Bridget—his heart leapt into this throat at the sight of her—was digging into her handbag. Triumphant at last, she held her keys aloft and shook them.

As he got closer, he called out her name. She turned and looked at him, quite visibly and understandably taken aback. "What are you doing here?"

Striving for a casual tone, Mark said, "I just wanted to know if you were available for bar mitzvahs and christenings as well as Ruby Weddings. Excellent speech."

She stood on the stoop in front of the door while he was on the walk, lending a greater equity to their heights. She furrowed her brow. "I thought that you were in America."

"Well, yes, I was, but, um… I realised I'd forgotten something back home."

She stepped even closer; he felt his blood rush with excitement at her proximity.

"Which was?"

"Well, I realised I'd forgotten to, um…" He was babbling, flailing, and fought hard not to show it; he could not remember the last time he'd felt so nervous with anticipation; quite possibly, he thought, that first night they'd slept together. "…kiss you good-bye. Do you mind?"

"Um…" She appeared to think about it, her eyes flitting upwards momentarily. "Not really, no." He moved to claim that kiss, leaning forward slightly, but just as quickly she reared back, taking in a breath, asking, "So… you're not going to America, then?"

"No."

"No," she repeated in a whisper.

"Not," he reiterated.

"Ah," she said quietly. "You're staying _here_."

"So it would seem."

With that, he leaned forward once more, heart hammering wildly as he braced himself yet again to kiss her—

Just as her friends in the car began to happily holler and honk the horn in approval.

Looking to them, he asked, unable to fully hide his irritation, "Friends of yours?"

She chuckled. "Uh, no. I've never seen them before in my life."

He leaned in a third time, saw how eager she seemed to receive it—

"Look," said Sharon from the car, stopping him cold, "are you coming to fucking Paris or not?"

_Paris_, he thought; memories of those weeks they'd had together in the most opulent suite in the hotel suddenly raced through his mind.

She shook her head, then said as if to reiterate, "Not."

"No fucking room anyway," said Sharon smugly. Jude and Tom concurred.

Mark said to her, "Maybe we should just go upstairs for a minute."

"Yes. Very good idea."

The moment they were in her flat he was emboldened enough to try to nuzzle into her neck. As he dove to bury his nose in her hair from behind her, another flood of memories washed over him; the scent of her perfume, that delicious vanilla rose, was almost overwhelming. Suddenly, though, she pulled away, quickly turning to face him. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms and crush her to him. "Uh… give me just a minute. Um… keep yourself busy. Read something. Lots of very high-quality magazines…" He fixed her with his gaze, leaned towards her; her speech faltered. "…with helpful fashion and romance… tips." He had just about pinned her to the wall to kiss her when she bent down and squirmed away from him. "I'll be right with you."

Though he felt slightly thwarted, he knew it was no snub; she had disappeared down the hall, closing the door behind her, and he knew she had not changed so much that she wouldn't want to pretty herself up for what he hoped would happen next. He decided to take her advice and flip through a magazine. His focus would be dismal at best, knowing that kissing her once again was imminent…

As he pushed aside the fashion magazines, he saw the bottom edge of what was quickly revealed to be a diary. It was already open, but it was no excuse for thumbing through the pages; he was not proud of the fact even as he did so, but curiosity got the better of him. When he saw the unkind things she'd written about him, he could not help but feel irrationally upset and angry. The Bridget he'd known never would have said such things about him—but she was not the Bridget he'd known.

"Right," he muttered. "Right."

Before he had a chance to think about it, he was on the street again, stalking away towards his house. As he approached a string of shops, however, his pace slowed, his anger suddenly calmed. Of course she was the Bridget he'd always known, even if she no longer knew him the way she once had—and surely her opinion had changed or she never would have spoken up to him at the Ruby Wedding. He sighed as he stood before the stationer's window, gazing into a lovely display of pens and paper without really seeing it. What the hell had he done? What had possessed him to leave after reaching the brink of reunion, something he'd only dreamt of all this time? He was now the one who had been rash and foolish.

Returning to the present, he noticed his eyes had fixed upon the centrepiece of the display, a beautiful cordovan leather-bound journal. He went into the store to purchase it for her. He hoped she would accept it as well as his profuse apologies. After paying for the journal, he opened it; as his eyes flitted over its blank pages, he realised it was a perfect metaphor for what he wanted most: to begin again with her, the slate as clean and pristine as these pages. He tucked it into his coat, under his arm, to keep it free from the falling snow.

In emerging from the stationer's, a most curious sight met his eyes: standing before the shop, wearing a cardigan, trainers, and not much else, was Bridget herself, looking truly despondent, still panting for air after her sprint. She came up close to him. "I am so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I mean, I _meant_ it… but I was so stupid that I didn't mean what I meant." Her expression, her gestures, made it seem like she were willing him to understand, waiting for some sign from him that she was making sense. He could only gaze at her necklace, then look down to her body, to her undergarments, both exposed to him as they had not been in so long. As if she'd noticed him staring, she pulled the cardigan closed around her. "Oh, for Christ's sakes," she said despairingly. He wondered if she might actually cry. "It's only a diary. Everyone knows diaries are just… full of crap."

He did not have the wherewithal to speak right away, so shocked was he at her appearance and by her words, but by the same token he knew he should have expected no less than for her to impulsively follow him, half-naked, running through the snow. "I know that," he said, snapping out of his thoughts. "I was just buying you a new one." As he pulled out the purchase he'd made, he added, "Time to make a new start, perhaps."

At that, her demeanour turned around completely; she smiled broadly, blinking in her astonishment, then dashed towards him, getting up onto her toes to throw her arms around his neck. Without conscious thought, his own arms came up to hold her. He buried his face into her hair once more, relished the scent of her as they stood there locked in an embrace, then pulled away from one another simultaneously just far enough almost to kiss. With his lips millimetres from hers, he turned his head; out of the corner of his eye he'd seen they had an audience. She must have seen the two old ladies, too, because he heard her chuckle. He turned back to look at her and offered her a smile of his own.

That smile faded as he leaned towards her, intending on claiming that long-denied kiss. For the first time in far too long, he pressed his lips to hers, felt the electric charge rise to meet him, felt the warmth and familiarity of her against him; she seemed very eager to reciprocate, touching his face with her fingertips, grasping his lapels. He was gentle and reverent at first, but as the kiss continued, as she became more insistent and passionate, he could not help but match that insistence and passion, encouraged by feel of her fingers in his hair and running over his cheek. He did not know how long they stood there like that, and he did not care; he felt utterly lost in her, in that kiss. This was what it felt like to truly come home again. This was what it meant to feel alive.

At last she drew back, gazing up at him with slight amazement. "Wait a minute," she said unsteadily. "Nice boys don't kiss like _that_."

"Oh yes they fucking do," he growled, so eager was he to kiss her again; at his words, she pushed herself up to meet his lips.

He had long been lauded as a patient man with regard to Bridget, but tonight he would not be a man of much patience at all. He scooped her into his coat and walked with her back to her flat, where he took her in his arms again, kissed her, and didn't stop; she did not at all object. As he slipped her cardigan off of her shoulders, as he ran his hands over the soft skin of the small of her back, it was like no time at all had passed for him. As omniscient as it must have made him seem, every place she liked to be kissed and touched came back to him as the long-practised habit it had once been. As they fell into her bed, their bodies quickly rediscovered the natural rhythm they'd always had together. He was stirred to arousal quickly, but did not make love to her hastily, and upon culmination, was physically satisfied—but more importantly, he was emotionally and spiritually satisfied. From the soft sounds she made, from her ardent responses and own ecstatic climax, she was too. He'd made sure of it.

That night in her arms was the best night's sleep he'd had in seven and a half years. Not that he slept a lot that night. He was far too eager to make up what was for him lost time.

………

He didn't expect everything to be exactly as it had been before. Rationally he knew this was impossible, that she did not have the background with him that she'd once had, and he had to constantly remind himself of that fact, particularly during moments when it felt like their life together had not been interrupted at all. He also had to remember that to her, she had known Tom, Sharon and Jude much longer than she had known him; therefore, these three friends were her first point of reference, the ones to whom she still went for advice and to whom she told everything. He had to admit that the fact he might never again fill that role in her life as he once had bothered him to an extent.

He was, however, far too happy to have her again—to talk to her, to hold her hand and hold her close—to wonder what the future may or may not hold, so long as she was in it. It was true that they spent a lot of time those first few days in bed; to anyone else it would have been the natural first step in a nascent relationship, where one can't get enough of one's brand new lover. For Mark, of course, it was not being able to get enough of his one true love.

The only real problem he faced was having to hold his tongue and not tell her, as he wanted to, how much he loved her, or that he loved her at all; from her perspective, it would have been a little too alarming after just a few days together, much too soon to hear those three little words. It would have been especially too soon to try to put Grandmother Darcy's ring back on her finger, as much as he wanted to do that too.

Bringing her to his house would have potentially been dangerous, too, at least until he had the chance to ensure anything suggesting their previous life together was hidden away: diaries, photos, even the novel, which for the most part lived in his bedside table and would have been too easy to stumble upon. Instead, rather than go to his house, they stayed at her flat, which he found orders of magnitude cosier and had the added bonus of reminding him very much of all of those nights he'd spent with her in Bangor. With no small sense of irony he also reflected upon a conversation of long ago, of wanting to leave the Trafalgar Square flat for a home of his own that could demonstrate his status—and now that he had such a house, he found he could hardly bear to stay in it.

As had happened so often in their prior relationship, he would wake to find her looking at him, that soft, contented smile playing on her lips. He had taken to teasing her about watching him while he slept.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" he murmured on New Year's Day morning, his eyes still closed. He fought a smile.

"Well, yes," she said playfully, tracing a finger over his brow, "but he was sleeping."

………

While the days between their reuniting and the New Year passed quickly in her company, he was feeling a building trepidation about the Turkey Curry Buffet. There would be no getting around the fact that he and Bridget were back together, and while was certain his parents and Pam Jones would be ecstatic, he was equally certain Colin Jones would not be.

"What's this?" Mark asked, pulling a pale blue jumper from a heap on the chair in her room.

"Oh," Bridget said, tinting pink, ensconced in the bed linens. "That was a present from your mum. I think she made it."

On the front was a snowman. It had its own scarf, one that dangled down, a testament to his mother's increased talents in the fibre arts. He could only laugh; his mother had made one for him that was nearly identical, only a darker blue. She asked him what was so funny, so he told her. She smirked, and once again he could not help but think she was as beautiful as she ever had been. "How sweet," she said. "It's like she knew before we did."

"Mm-hm," he said.

"We should wear them today," she said, as if inspired. "Maybe pervy old Uncle Geoffrey will leave me alone at last now that I have you."

He could only look at her with tenderness before sitting on the bed again and pulling her into an embrace. She chuckled and said, her voice muffled, "You can be so odd sometimes."

………

Because of a prior engagement of Bridget's—prior to their reuniting—they could not travel to the party together; she would be taking a train and arriving late. Mark was disappointed that she couldn't ride with him, but with the anxiety he was feeling about speaking with Bridget's father, he thought it best to get it out of the way before she had even arrived.

"Mark!" said Pam enthusiastically as she greeted him at the door of their house, hugging him and pecking his cheek. "So glad you could come—I couldn't believe it when your mother told me you hadn't gone to New York after all, and why!" Still smiling, she looked past him out to the walk. "So where is that daughter of mine?"

"She's coming later," he said. In a quieter voice, he added, "I was hoping to take the opportunity to speak with Mr Jones. I'm pretty sure he's not at all happy about this development."

Pam made a dismissive sound. "You've just gotten things back on track, that's all," she said. "I mean, not that _she_ knows of course, but… he'll come around, once he sees how much you still love her."

It meant a lot to him to hear her say that. "I never stopped, Mrs Jones."

She patted his cheek, smiled sympathetically. "Come on in and have a drink."

Mark was one of the first to have arrived. Within a few steps he came eye to eye with Colin Jones himself. Foreign ambassadors and dignitaries he could stand up to, but the man had always had a way, despite his genial demeanour, of turning Mark's stomach into knots when it came to Bridget. "Hello, sir."

"Mark," he said curtly. "Before you say a thing, yes, I know all about it. You're… back with Bridget."

"I figured your wife had told you, yes."

He brought his brows together. "I thought you said you had no intention of pursuing my daughter again."

"It was not my intention, sir, true."

"And yet… you're here and not in New York."

Mark glanced down; it was time for the talk they should have had years ago. Discreetly he said, "Mr Jones, you _know_ me—or at least I think you do, or at least you _did_. I have never had anything but her best interest at heart and I would never hurt her intentionally. I don't know why she took the impulsive action that she did and I never will, though God knows I wish I did. That doesn't mean I haven't stopped loving her or caring about her all this time—so much would have been easier for me if I hadn't. But _this_… this is a second chance I never thought I'd have, and you'll just have to trust me when I say I have no intention of ruining it."

He stopped speaking, watched Colin Jones for some reaction. His face was unusually impassive. "She's not perfect," he said at last. "But she's my daughter and I love her all the same."

"I know," he said.

"You have to understand, Mark, that though I know she can act too impulsively at times… I wouldn't have thought her to be so reckless as to throw away everything she ever had with you for something… _trivial_."

He knew what Colin was saying: that Mark must have done something truly vicious to prompt her to such action. His tone was cross when he spoke again. "We had a fight. I said something stupid and hurtful, and I will take responsibility for what I said in a momentary and regrettable loss of temper. Did I think she'd take me seriously? Absolutely not, or I would have followed her immediately. The biggest mistake I've ever made in my life, my biggest regret, was trying to take the time to calm myself instead of going straight after her. If I had gone right away, we would not be having this conversation."

The two of them stood there for many moments, saying nothing, until at last Colin cleared his throat. "I… think I heard your parents arrive."

Mark let out a long breath, then nodded. He figured they had each said all they would say on the matter; the rest would have to rely on Mark's actions rather than words, just as had been true so many years ago. "Thank you."

The rest of the party was pleasant enough; Bridget arrived and as she did, she strolled right up to Mark, got up onto her toes, wove her fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, and gave him a big kiss in front of all and sundry present. "The Turkey Curry Buffet will never be the same for me," she said, her eyes sparkling, her happiness and her smile infectious.

Much was made about their matching jumpers and the fact that they were holding hands. Mark took the opportunity to calmly, politely and directly warn Geoffrey off; he had, after all, seen the way the man had ogled Bridget's bunny tail that previous summer. In the end, he had a great time, though. When he caught his mother's eye, she winked quite boldly at him.

He had forgotten how good it was to be this happy.

………

"I said _I love you_, for God's sake!"

Standing in the frigid night on her stoop, barking his admission of love into the coldly impersonal faceplate of the intercom system, was not exactly the most decorous way to tell her he loved her again, and certainly not the way he'd wanted to do it. The night had been a rough one; her entry—re-entry, as it were—into the world of his professional associates at the Law Council Dinner had not at all been smooth. She'd seemed distracted by the presence of his assistant, a young woman called Rebecca, and was put out by the fact that the she could not sit next to him during dinner. After the festivities, they'd had a row, one that Mark had to admit frightened him a little; before she'd stalked away, she had said that she may have regretted letting him and his 'folded underpants' into her life.

He was not about to let such a statement go unchallenged.

"All right," she said; from her tone he thought it all too likely she had heard him perfectly well the first two times. "No need to shout. I'll come down and let you in." This was reaffirmed a few minutes later when he saw her impish smile upon pushing the door open for him. He barely heard the cheers of the other men on the street over the sound of her voice, the key she held up for him between her finger and thumb: "You might be needing this in the future."

She backed up into her building; he carefully closed the door, ensuring it latched. When he turned to face her again, she ran to him and threw her arms around him, kissing him deeply before pulling away then taking his hand.

"Let's go upstairs," she said, then walked towards the staircase.

He realised pretty quickly that the dress she wore, though shimmering gold and wonderfully flattering, was so form-fitting around her legs that it took her three times longer to ascend a single stair. "Bridget," he said. She turned to him from two steps up, at just about eye level with him.

"Yes?"

"We'll be climbing all night if I don't do this."

"Do what?"

Rapidly he leaned forward, took her around her legs, and lifted her up over his shoulder. She offered protests between her laughter; even with carrying her, he was able to scale the stairs much more quickly than she could have done on her own.

He used his new key to let himself in, then went up and into the flat. He patted her bottom affectionately before lowering her to her feet again. She tried to affect an affronted expression, but he wasn't buying it for a second.

"That was not very dignified," she said.

"I never could have taken those corners had I carried you in a more dignified manner."

At that she laughed, threw herself into his arms again, and kissed him. "Mmm," she said throatily as she pulled back from him, taking off her coat. "Just give me a few moments to slip out of this dress. Make yourself comfortable." She made her way back to the bathroom and closed the door. He divested himself of his coat, then went down the hall and into her bedroom, taking off his jacket and undoing the tie before pulling it off.

He heard her quietly call his name. She sounded a little panicked. He went to the bathroom door and asked, "Is everything all right?"

"I… need your help," she said, "but you have to promise not to laugh at me or judge me."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

She opened the door to reveal herself dressed in a bra and what looked like a miniskirt with a panel over the stomach; he was not terribly familiar with the finer details of women's underclothes. "Yes, it's a girdle," she sighed, her voice full of lament.

He ran his fingers over her stomach, around to her hip. He would never tire of seeing her in such an intimate state of undress. "Whatever it is, it's sexy as hell."

She pursed her lips, evidently believing he was merely humouring her, and continued, "I can't seem to… get it off on my own."

At her sad tone he was almost tempted to laugh; he would just have to show her he'd meant what he'd said. Without another word, he helped her to pull down the strong elastic undergarment. Standing there in bra, panties and stockings, he continued to roam his gaze over her body. "Do I get to help with the rest of it too?" he murmured.

She smiled at last, then got up on her toes to kiss him.

It was only after a thoroughly enjoyable romp, lying satiated in bed and drifting off to sleep, did he wonder why she had not said in return that she loved him. He wondered… and worried.

………

It was his habit to check his answerphone even though, for the most part, he rarely had messages; when he did, it was usually his mother, sometimes Jeremy, sometimes Rebecca. He did so upon arriving home—and as he listened, he felt himself start to laugh with abandon.

While he had been at her door, she'd been in the process of leaving him the most rambling, adorably angry message he'd ever heard, alternately begging him not to chuck her, promising to behave better in future—and scolding him and threatening that he had better behave in future too.

It was almost enough to make him turn back around for her flat to have her again.

………

His first mistake was to be too rapidly lulled into a sense of security by the past, assuming all too quickly that things had not essentially changed; forgetting for a moment that she didn't know him like she used to, didn't have the benefit of her previous experience, didn't know he really wasn't looking for anyone else and was completely, blissfully happy being with her.

His second was in not realising her experience with other men in the intervening years since her trip to Lacuna had left her insecure when it came to relationships.

His third mistake was not following her out of the house when she left him. Again.


	27. Chapter 26

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Total words: Lots. More than 128,281 now, for sure.  
This part: ~5,652.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.  
Author's request: Uh, yeah, you know :) (Eeek! Almost done!)

* * *

_Chapter 26_

It all disintegrated so quickly and unexpectedly.

It was supposed to have been a mini-break ski weekend, one that he had proposed instead of almost proposing something else in a post-coital daze that same evening. She'd seemed overjoyed, even though he knew that she had no experience skiing. He enjoyed it himself but it would not be primarily skiing he was interested in while there.

Things were made awkward when a contingent of his colleagues also booked at the same resort, making her feel a little crowded in; thing were subsequently made worse by a pregnancy scare. It was not something they had ever had to deal with in all their years together before, and while the notion of a child, _their_ child, very much pleased him, the fact that they almost immediately began to argue about names, schools and child-rearing techniques turned everything sour. It especially stung when she revealed her opinion of Eton, his old school, to be so bitterly cynical, after listening her tell him for so many years how proud she'd been of his academic achievements. This new opinion made it sound as if the school itself had contributed to his reserved nature, had made him boring and stuffy.

The test turned out to be negative. Her relief seemed palpable as she angrily stormed out, leaving him alone on the couch to nurse his fears that she didn't love him, didn't want to bear his child, and would never want to marry him… and that maybe, just maybe, she would never return.

She did return—they were, after all, in a ski resort in a foreign country—but not until he was already in bed. He feigned being asleep, so hurt was his pride and his ego, so conflicted were his thoughts and so reticent was he to speak of anything approaching the time before Lacuna, even though he knew he should have talked to her. Consequently, they spent Sunday morning in near silence. On the airplane home she tried to get him to talk about things—he could see that now—but he was cool and brusque in his reply, reminding her only that they would be returning to Grafton Underwood to have lunch with her parents.

That turned into another level of hell altogether. His parents had been invited, and the Alconburys were also present, though after one look at Mark, Geoffrey excused himself for the garden. Their parents and Una were very upfront, almost too upfront, about what they all felt to be the natural progression for the younger generation: marriage.

Pam Jones popped up with, "So, Mark, Bridget, when are you two lovebirds going to name the day?"

Una chimed in with, "Come on, Bridget, you must want to hear those ding-dong bells."

Bridget looked uneasy, glanced to him; surely she thought this much pressure this soon for her was over the top. So he spoke up for them, even though the words he said could not have been further from the truth.

"Well, we're certainly not thinking about that yet. Are we, Bridget?"

"No!" she said quickly, laughing nervously. "God, no! Of course not."

He shouldn't have been, but he was disheartened by how little time she'd needed to think about it before she answered.

Conversation then moved on to his father's latest activities; Mark fell into a sullen mood, wanting to say so much, to explain so much, and knew that he could not. In the car on the way back to London, she tried yet again to get him to talk.

"Did you mean that thing you said?" she asked.

Confused as to why she would ask, and not knowing what else to say, he deflected her questions by pretending not to know to what she was referring. It was cowardly and he knew it, but if he had begun speaking on the subject he would have gone much too far, strayed into dangerous territory about their past. From her point of view, they had only been together a little over two months. That would be ridiculously early in an average relationship to be considering marriage, particularly when he considered how long it had taken them to get around to almost doing it the last time.

The closer they got to London, though, the more he knew he had to say something to her. He could not bear the tension that had built between them. The problem was, though, he had no idea what to say.

He let them into the house, then moved past her, stuffing his keys back into his pocket.

"What's the matter?"

He realised he was still acting tense and annoyed, and treating her like a badly behaved child. He exhaled, trying to keep his tone controlled and steady. "Let's get a drink." He went downstairs to the kitchen. She followed, hopping up to sit on the breakfast bar. He pulled down two glasses from the cupboard, set them down, and then turned to her to speak. "I'm going to go to the loo, and then I'm going to come back and then we're going to be civilised."

While he did need to use the loo, his primary reason for going in there was to collect his thoughts. It was nearly impossible for him separate their past from their present, and equally impossible to know how she was feeling or what precisely she was thinking. He remembered words she'd said after the Law Council Dinner, how she would have said no if he'd asked, and they suddenly made sense to him; he realised she had never come out and said 'I love you' to him; and he was still reeling more than he wanted to admit from the fight in their room in the ski lodge. Maybe she even sensed he wanted to propose and thought him mad for wanting to do so.

He took in a deep breath and decided that he would tell her that after rushing into marriage once before, he was not ready to do it again, even though in his heart he knew he would have married her in a moment's notice; he'd explain that it didn't mean he would never be ready, and that she should feel no pressure at all. He was more and more confident as the seconds passed that he could clear up any misunderstandings and they could have a lovely dinner together, peace restored.

When he returned to the kitchen, he knew something had changed. The atmosphere felt charged, she was no longer sitting, and she looked upset. Very upset.

He felt his own features fall. "Oh, Christ," he said. "What now?"

She levelled her gaze at him and asked, "Are you or are you not having an affair with Rebecca Gillies?"

This accusation of infidelity completely blindsided him. In automatic response, he said, "I won't dignify that question with an answer."

She looked momentarily shell-shocked. "Right." She swept past him for the stairs.

"All I did was go to the loo," he muttered to himself, wondering what on earth had prompted her to ask such a ridiculous question out of the blue. How could she not know she was everything to him? Hadn't he made it perfectly plain in their time together?

The thought of her abandoning him in the kitchen once again was almost more than he could bear. As he scaled the stairs, he called her name; his voice sounded nearly hysterical to his own ears. She didn't answer. As he got to the top, he saw her walking towards the front door wearing an overcoat that was far too large for her. "Bridget," he said again. She turned. He said the first thing he thought of to get her not to leave: "That's not your coat."

As she moved around him, taking off his coat and putting on her own, he struggled to find the words that would fix this, would make it right. He couldn't find them.

"Bridget, what are you doing?" he asked at last.

She buttoned her coat and faced him defiantly. He stepped closer to her. She said, "I read that you should never go out with someone if you can think of three reasons why you shouldn't."

"And can you think of three?"

"Yes."

"Which are?"

"Well, first up, I embarrass you. I can't ski, I can't ride, I can't speak Latin. My legs only come up to here—" She indicated her hips. "—and yes, I will always be just a little bit fat." He exhaled in his frustration; he had never, in all his years with her then, all his days with her now, thought she was overweight in the least, had rather expressed his appreciation of her curvy form on more than one occasion. "And you, you fold your underpants before you go to bed."

"Now, hang on," he said, pointing to her, desperate to defend himself. "That… that… that can't be a reason."

"No, it's _not_ a reason!" she said, exasperated. "But you're not perfect either. You look down your nose at absolutely everyone and you're incapable of doing anything spontaneous or potentially affectionate." He looked down, feeling as if he'd just been punched in the stomach. "It feels like you're waiting to find someone in the VIP room who, who's… so fantastic _just the way she is_… that you don't need to fix her."

His head was swirling with his confusion. Where had she ever gotten the impression that he wanted to change anything about her? "Bridget, this is mad."

"Perhaps you've already found her."

_Yes!_ he thought. _You!_ He kept his emotions reined in, though, because he had learned the hard way what letting his emotions speak for him could lead to. So he said nothing.

After a pause, she asked, her voice cracking, "Do you _want_ to marry me?"

What he wanted most to do was to shout at the top of his lungs that for the previous fifteen years, all he had wanted for his happiness, more than anything else in the world, was to marry her… but again he could say nothing. Nor could he remind her how her deflecting his proposal so many years running had hurt him; how thrilled he had been when she had been the one to propose to him; how much he had loved that their wedding had been within sight before everything had fallen apart around him. Instead of saying any of those things, he only faltered and said in a weak voice, "Look, I…"

She did not wait for him to continue once he'd trailed off. "You see," she said, "you can never muster the strength… to _fight_ for me." With a final meaningful look, she turned and left the house.

There was no way she could know what her words could mean to him, how utterly destroyed he felt to hear them. He had not fought for her when it was most important to him to do so, had not followed her to take her in his arms, to apologise profusely and make things right. Now she'd left again. He was so paralysed by the fear that had taken hold of him that he was literally frozen in place.

Would she do it again? That was the thought that cycled through his head; would he see her on the street and she wouldn't know him? He did not think he could bear that a second time.

When he finally found it in his power to move again (how much time had passed, he was not sure), he decided to go down for that glass of wine; the illogic of not going after her now when he regretted not going after her once before was not lost on him. To say he was not thinking straight was an understatement. Though he was barely aware of his surroundings, he did, however, notice the answerphone light blinking; thinking it might be Bridget, he leapt upon it and pressed play.

As he listened, he understood where her question regarding infidelity had come from: on the machine was a light, friendly message from his assistant and friend. The lack of trust really pained him deeply. He tried not to compare her to the Bridget he'd once known, because he knew it wasn't entirely fair—and as always, he was not entirely successful at the endeavour—but even considering their time together so far since just before the New Year, he could not think of a single circumstance in which she could possibly believe him to be anything but completely devoted to her.

He poured himself some wine, and with no small amount of pain put the empty glass away. He drained the glass in one draw, then set it down. He could not get her words out of his head; suggesting he could not be affectionate or spontaneous wounded him. Perhaps he had been too reserved in general in his ongoing efforts not to let something slip, but to say he was incapable of either was simply not fair. He had never been a physically demonstrative person in public, though he certainly had been more affectionate with her than he ever had been with anyone else, particularly since their split.

The old Bridget would have known: he was the sensible, solid one; she was the spontaneous, playful one. They'd always balanced each other out.

He took another drink, reminding himself for the millionth time that the old Bridget was gone. Chuckling mirthlessly, he pondered that the new one was now gone, too. He didn't know how to fix his present situation, and he hated feeling helpless more than almost anything in the world.

………

The post was waiting on the table in the foyer when he came in from work the next day; he reasoned the housekeeper must have brought it in. His blood ran cold when he saw a very familiar name printed on the top left corner of the envelope. He tore it open.

Bridget Jones has had Mark Darcy erased from her memory… again. Please never mention their relationship to her… yes, _again_. Christ, you think he would learn, right? Thank you.

This jolted him awake out of the sleep he'd fallen into on the sofa. It was late, that much he could tell from the silence and the darkness. He glanced to his watch. Two in the morning.

He sighed and sat up, running his fingers back through his hair. The adrenaline rush triggered by that dream meant he would not be returning to sleep anytime soon. He slipped his shoes back on, donned his overcoat, and strode out into the night. He didn't know where he would go. He only needed to walk.

………

He did not receive a letter from Lacuna that next morning, nor the next, and after two weeks with no such correspondence, he had to believe that she hadn't paid a visit to Lacuna after all. Petulantly and not particularly rationally—because he really did not actually want her to go through with it again—he thought evidently he hadn't meant enough to her to warrant a second visit. _Damned if you do, damned if you don't_.

In his slumbering state, he continued to receive the letter regularly; he also revisited that night she'd left the first time, too. Sleep eluded him most nights, not that he was anxious to return to the landscape of such nightmares. He felt bereft and alone again—and could not stop thinking what Colin Jones must have thought of him now, particularly if he heard and believed Mark could be unfaithful.

He saw her briefly at the christening of Magda and Jeremy's newest baby; he was glad that despite everything their marriage had lasted and that they really did love each other. He was godfather; she, godmother; it was painfully clear by the glances she gave to him that Bridget remembered him all too well during the course of the ceremony. Afterwards, during a brief conversation with her in the vestry, the ice broken by a lost then recovered mobile phone, that he thought perhaps his phoenix-like relationship with her might again rise from the ashes.

That was when Daniel Cleaver's impeccable timing struck yet again. Just as things appeared to be moving in this positive direction, her mobile rang in the middle of their conversation. He shouldn't have taken the liberty of answering her phone, but it was just as well. Daniel. He would rather have known sooner rather than later that she was intending on seeing Daniel again. He felt himself close up emotionally as he gave her back the key to her flat.

It was really over. Again.

………

"Mark, Jesus Christ, _Mark_. You have to help."

A perplexing phone call one night in May shocked Mark back into waking life.

"Who is this?" he said, sitting up in his bed, rubbing his eyes.

"It's Sharon, Mark. Shazzer."

_Bridget._

He was filled with a sudden, overwhelming panic. "What is it?"

"Bridget got nicked for drugs in the airport in Thailand."

There was so much about that sentence that he didn't understand. Thailand? Drugs?

"She didn't do it, of course," Sharon went on in a rush. "I know it's late, but it's really important. Can we come over?"

'We' turned out to be Sharon, Tom, Jude and Magda; he learned in short order everything that Sharon knew: Sharon met a man on the plane who'd had every intention of setting her up to be an unwitting mule; because of space constraints, the gift he'd given to Sharon was packed into Bridget's suitcase instead of her own. When Bridget was caught with the gift, a strange snake bowl, it turned out to be stuffed with cocaine.

His blood ran cold. Consideration for himself fell by the wayside; he could not let her languish in prison on the other side of the world. He knew he must do everything he could to free her. He started making phone calls straightaway, and within a few hours of that he was on a plane to Lyon.

A few days after that, he was in Thailand, investigating every lead he could find to exonerate her, and in doing so made a horrifying discovery: while Bridget had travelled to Thailand for work, she had done so in the company of Daniel Cleaver and had stayed the night in his hotel room. He could not believe it when he first learned of it, but given the number of corroborative statements he collected, it could hardly be refuted.

His experience with international law came in very handy, and after a chess game across the Middle East, he was very close to securing her release; he only needed her to identify the actual perpetrator. If not for the fact he was the best candidate to gather that information from her—that and he was already halfway there—he might have sent one of the younger partners to do it. He did not want to have the last image in his head of her to be in a dank, dreary Thai prison.

Coming face to face with Bridget in the holding cell was very difficult for him. As he spoke, he struggled to remain professional, to suppress the jealousy he felt over her having travelled there with Daniel, but at the sight of her in this terrible place, he only felt protective, only wanted to hold her close, smooth down her hair and assure her all would be well. She was clearly shocked to see him; she had no idea of his real involvement in the effort to release her, and he was not about to tell her. He wouldn't have been able to bear knowing that she had only kept him in her life out of gratitude, not when she had chosen another man. That Mark might have been her first lover but no longer her only one was a reality he had previously and purposely not considered, a notion he kept fuzzy and to the edges of his consciousness. Now this reality, the notion of her experience and ability to compare and choose between men, was brought into sharp focus.

His recollection over the past year—of what he had seen with his own eyes out in the boats in the country, the way she had laughed and had fun with Daniel, the way she had so vehemently defended him the night of her birthday—and her reaction to the mention of his name in the cell convinced Mark she was, and had been for some time, in love with Daniel. He could only feel now that she'd never told Mark she loved him in their renewed time together because Daniel had already filled that place in her heart.

When she reached out to him, stretched her hand out over the table, he had to ignore it. He could tell she felt badly, had never intended for him to find out, but he did not need her pity now.

As he headed out of the cell, he wouldn't have even looked back if she hadn't called his name to thank him. His heart broke as he looked to her again, but he kept his composure and left her there.

It wasn't until later that night in the dark of his hotel room, alone in the quiet of the wee hours (or as quiet as it was likely to get in Bangkok) and mired in his own thoughts, did he actually grow angry, and that ire built with every moment that passed. How unfair it all was that he should have loved her as well as he did, that he should have been such a major part in her life, the one she trusted most in the world, her best friend; and with a single poorly chosen phrase on his part, she'd forever deleted him from her memory. On the other hand Daniel, who treated her like the scoundrel he was, cheated on her and lied to her, had not only been forgiven, but given a second chance to get so intimately close to her without the benefit of a clean slate.

This vexation sustained him through the entire fourteen-hour flight home; on the airplane he resolved that the moment he landed he would find Daniel Cleaver and confront him. How could he have slept with her then abandon her at the airport in her hour of need? How could he have been so callous with her heart?

He found Cleaver working at the Serpentine, filming a segment about a show by a painter he had never heard of. As incandescent with rage as Mark was at Daniel's too-flippant reply to his question about seeing Bridget detained at the airport—smuggling seashells or mangoes, indeed—it didn't surprise him that again his former best friend had driven him to physical violence.

It was only after the conclusion of the fight, standing in shin-high water in the fountain in the park, that Mark would discover a truth that would instantly dissipate his anger: Bridget had not succumbed to Daniel's charms, had not slept with him, was not back together with him.

Daniel took advantage of his discombobulation to tease him about asking her to marry him already, which shocked him. Could Daniel have possibly remembered who Bridget was to Mark? Had he put two and two together from their days at Cambridge? It was the additional taunt, clearly referencing his previous marriage, that made him realise Daniel had guessed no such thing; he had just taken an opportunity to get in a dig about his ex-wife and her obvious enjoyment of sex on the floor with him.

Once his fury at Daniel had further cooled he also realised that the man honestly had not known she was in so much trouble, that the usual defence mechanism had kicked in to cover how badly he actually had felt.

Afterwards, though, he felt just as deflated and forlorn as he had before, maybe even more so. She had still made a choice by not choosing him at all.

………

Dragging himself to the conference with the Peruvians was the last thing he'd wanted to do, but on the other hand it at least gave him something with which to distract himself instead of wallowing in self-pity. His assistant Rebecca was setting up the debrief at his own house while he acted as discussion moderator; 'ringleader' was actually more apt a description. The leader of the Peruvian contingent, Secretary of Trade Santiago, was something of an enigma, difficult to gauge in his stance in the proceedings, and even harder to read in terms of personality. Santiago's English was very good, so it was not a language problem; he was just excellent at remaining unreadable. Having a handle on the man's temperament—hardliner, easygoing, or somewhere in between—would have made everything so much easier for Mark.

The proceedings had barely begun when they were interrupted. Mark's initial thoughts were that some kind of activist had made it through; at least, until he realised the woman dressed in a sopping wet white cotton dress, hair hanging like sodden ribbons around her face, was Bridget, obviously returned from Thailand a free woman.

"Hello, Mark," she said timidly, glancing to the others in the room. "I'm sorry. I'm disturbing you."

"Well, yes. A bit."

"I'll just… sit outside while you finish."

Surprisingly, Santiago spoke up, his voice full of unexpected amusement. "No, no, no, please. Say what you have to say, young lady."

After introducing Santiago and Hernandez to her, and she, with a nervous chuckle, saying hello in return, Santiago prompted her again to speak.

As she went on, babbling on as she was so good at doing, as he realised she had discovered everything he had done to get her out of prison, his heart turned heavy and sank; she would feel indebted to him in a way he could not bear. He did not want to hear her words of gratitude before she left again, before he was doomed to an existence of polite 'hello's at future Turkey Curry Buffets. His eyes lowered, unable to look at her as she told him, via Santiago, what she wanted to say to him.

"…I love him. Always have. Always will."

Mark's eyes shot up to meet hers again. He was utterly thunderstruck by the sentiment she'd expressed.

She'd said she'd loved him, always.

Time seemed to stop at that moment, his vision blurring at the edges; she was the only thing he saw with perfect clarity, and she was telling him that she loved him and wanted him back.

He'd never been so glad to be so mistaken.

"So? Your girlfriend is a lesbian!"

The apparent non-sequitur, in an amused tone from none other than Santiago himself, brought Mark out of his haze, causing him to say a tad too abruptly, "Look, if you'd all just excuse us for a sec…" He went close to her, touched her arm. "I think we should…" He indicated the door from which she had entered, and they headed back out into the hallway.

"Bridget," he said, thinking of her words to him, speaking of being available for dates, as well as previous ones that bade him be more spontaneous and affectionate, "that was not the most romantic proposition I've ever heard."

"Well," she said, her eyes wistful, pleading, "maybe it _is_ romantic, because it's _not_. I mean… I know there's no music playing, and it's not _snowing_, but that doesn't mean that it—that it can't really be _something_."

It was such typical, paradoxical Bridget-logic that he was immediately inspired to that spontaneity and affection, to find the courage to ask for more than just a date with her; he only regretted he didn't have the ring with him. He said thoughtfully, "You're right." She smiled. "In fact, there's a question I've been meaning to ask you."

"All right," she said with feigned nonchalance. "As long as it's not 'Will you marry me?'"

He said nothing in his bewilderment at being anticipated. She correctly interpreted his silence.

"Oh, God," she said, paling in colour. "It is 'Will you marry me?'"

He could swear he heard disappointment in her tone, regret in predicting in jest and cutting down a proposal she now seemed keen to hear. Hope was further restored in his heart; his confidence was buoyed.

"Well, I'm not going to say it now," he said in a tone serious enough to camouflage his teasing. "You just spoiled the moment."

"It is 'Will you marry me?'!" she said again.

"Bridget," he said, equally solemnly. "The moment's gone."

"No, no, no, no, _wait_. Wait."

She dashed away from him and towards the conference room they'd recently vacated.

"Bridget."

"Start again," she said.

"No."

"Start again!" she repeated, her voice strangled.

"No, I'm not gonna just…"

She'd turned at the conference room door, apparently ready to re-enact the scene more to her liking. "We've just stepped out into the corridor, and you say, 'I've got a question to ask you.' And I don't say _anything_. And then… you say…" She made motions with her hands, widening her eyes and nodding her head slightly, in an effort to encourage him to speak the lines she'd written in her mind and clearly wanted to hear him say.

He took in a breath, keeping his features free from the happiness he felt. "Bridget Jones," he said soberly, "will you marry me?

The bright smile that washed over her face, the tears in her eyes, the way she sprinted towards him in a run, was answer enough; he smiled then took her into his arms and swept her up off of her feet. Then he kissed her. And kissed her again. And again.

The meeting with the Peruvians was over in record time. Mark Darcy had gotten the fix on Santiago's personality that he had so desperately wanted. He left the debrief in the hands of his more than able partner in chambers; after all, he had a little celebrating to do.

The ring he was saving for another time, however.

………

He wanted to go for a drive that weekend to the country, up to Grafton Underwood and asked her with him under the pretence of taking her to visit her parents. He pulled to the side of the road just outside of the village, though; if it bothered or confused her that he did, she didn't say anything, but she did furrow her brow. He took her hand, asked her to humour him and come with him for a walk. "You wanted spontaneity," he reminded; she laughed, reached to kiss him, then turned away to push her door open.

It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the cerulean sky; it was approaching the height of summer and everything around them in the lush expanse around them was bright, vivid greens and golds. The only sound was the wind blowing through the leaves, racing over his skin, sending her hair into swirls around her face.

"This is as nice a spot as any," he said, approaching a copse of trees. He dropped down to sit at the base of a particularly broad tree.

"What for?" she asked, settling next to him.

He put his arm around her and pulled her close. She ran her hand over his chest, leaning on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep, centring breath before exhaling again.

"Peace and quiet," he explained at last, looking down to her again, her eyes closed, her features serene.

"Mmm," she concurred.

"And this."

He reached for her left hand, stroking his thumb over the empty place where a ring had once been and would be again. He then sat up, startling her, before digging into his pocket for the small box that had kept Grandmother Darcy's ring safe and sound until it could be returned to the place it belonged. He flipped the box open; she gasped as she saw it.

"Oh my God, Mark," she breathed, covering her mouth with her hands. "Was that your mother's? It's beautiful."

"Grandmother's," he said softly. "I knew you'd love it."

Restoring the ring to her finger was no easy task. His hands trembled as he slid it into place, emotion inconveniently clouding and overflowing his eyes with tears, which he tried to brush away covertly with his thumb. She noticed.

"I don't know if I've ever seen you cry before," she said sombrely. She took his face in her hands, then placed a kiss on his lips. He smiled as she pulled back once more to meet his eyes, tears brimming in her own, before she put her arms around him and held him against her.

He could never explain to her the significance of this location for him, a place to which he'd brought her repeatedly in another lifetime; a place to sit and snog and test the boundaries of their burgeoning intimacy; to enjoy the solitude of the country and the peace of being in her arms as a respite from the crazed pace of the city; and so near a place where he danced with her in the moonlight almost seventeen years earlier, a car radio serenading them, tears in her eyes then, too.

"I love it," she said, evidently admiring the ring from over his shoulder. He chuckled low in his throat. "God, it's just perfect. I don't know how you knew I'd love it so much, but I do." She reared back, pecked him on the lips, before leaning forward to take his mouth in a much more passionate kiss, nipping his lip in the process, leaning the both of them against the tree again. "You could propose a million times," she sighed, "and I'd always say yes, yes… _yes_."

His eyes searched hers again before he resumed the kiss. He felt no pang of heartache with her words. He only felt joy at a future yet to come.

He felt complete.


	28. Chapter 27

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009, 2010

Total words: 146,260. Sweet mother of Jesus.  
This part: 5,805.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.

* * *

_Chapter 27_

The silence after he stopped speaking at last was deafening.

She still sat cross-legged on the floor, papers and photos scattered around her, leaning back against the wall. She had not said a single word the entire time he was talking, and even now she seemed to be rather in shock. She did not respond when he sat next to her on the carpeted floor. It was not until he said her name that he got a reaction.

"Bridget," he said sharply.

Her bleary eyes turned to him quickly. "Mark. I'm…" She drifted off, her eyes moving to the photos again.

"Talk to me," he said.

She looked confused as she stared at the photos, so _many_ photos, so many happy expressions and happy times. Tears were still sliding down her face. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she said at last in a gravelly voice. "Show me the pictures, the letters, all of it?"

"Like I said, I couldn't," he said. "Not that I didn't want to. I was told again and again that mention of our past relationship could be extremely traumatic." He wasn't convinced that she wasn't in fact shattered inside; she was staring at a point in the near distance, her brows furrowed, nonresponsive for many minutes. "Bridget," he said in that same sharp tone.

She blinked slowly, then looked at him again. "It's just so hard to believe," she said. "If it weren't for all of these pictures… and letters… in my _own handwriting_…. I really can't remember anything. I just…" She drifted off again.

"I know it's hard to believe," he said. "I had a hard time believing it myself when I got the letter." He saw the corner of that unmistakeable off-white bond paper and dug down into the box to pull out the timeworn letter he'd gotten from Lacuna. She took it from his hand.

As she read it, she shook her head and sighed, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Why did I do it?"

"Again, I don't know for sure," he said. "I can only speculate it was because you believed me when I said what I'd foolishly said during the fight. About everything being a mistake."

She shook her head, still disbelieving. "But that was one fight, and why would I possibly think you were serious? It seems odd that there were no other reasons."

He sighed. He had always thought it an overreaction, but felt no triumph at her assessment. "It's likely there were. I just don't know," he reiterated.

He scooted closer to her, slipping his arm around her. To his utter relief—because he didn't quite know how she would react—she curled into him, hugging him in return, leaning on him heavily as she began to sob. She did not say anything for a very long time. He figured she would speak when she was ready.

He did not know how much time passed there in the quiet with her in his arms; it must have been into the wee hours for as long as he'd been talking. "Oh, Mark," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. "It must have been so hard for you."

"Yes," he admitted. "It was."

"And then you came back, and you saw me again, and you couldn't say anything…"

"I almost slipped up so many times," he said. "Did slip up, actually. You never questioned how I knew your birthday, or why I kept staring at your necklace, or how I knew you'd gone to Bangor."

"Always figured your mother had told you," she said, then went silent again. "God, when I think back to the first time I met you—well, obviously not the _very_ first time, but the first time I can remember—I was in that awful outfit… and you were so rude…. God, how horrible I thought you were, and turns out you were still…" She hiccoughed. "…in _love_ with me." At this her sobbing began anew, and she squeezed him tight, burying her face in his shirt again. "So long in exile from home with a broken heart, all because of me."

He smoothed her hair down. "Darling, please remember I could have had it done too," he said gently; although he had endured much pain due to those memories, they had ultimately been what had guided him back to her, and he had never regretted that decision.

"It must have been so hard to bite your tongue as much as you must've had to," she said.

He nodded. "I could never tell you how well I knew Magda already, when you'd go on and on about her," he said. "I really loved that story about Constance and the chocolate torte."

She sputtered a laugh. "Well, you know I'm no Julie Enderby."

"Thank God," he murmured, smiling to himself.

She went quiet again. "And it _was_ a damn good cake."

He laughed, his fears assuaged; she was taking this far better than he ever would have thought. "That's when I knew you really had not changed," he said softly, reminiscing again. "The smoking, though; God, how that vexed me. Beyond health issues, you were breaking a promise to me, though you didn't know it. And while I liked Jude, Sharon and Tom, I could never let on how much it pained me to see your friends, people you never knew before you… left, had taken my place in your life. I admit I was a little jealous of that, and afraid I would never be that to you again."

She drew back to look at him again. "You're my husband," she said with great seriousness, "and maybe you weren't at first when I met you, er, again, but you are now. My best friend, I mean." She let out a long breath. "I still can't believe you were… my first. I just thought it must have been so forgettable that—" She blushed. "I don't mean…"

He chuckled. "Believe me, it was anything but forgettable."

Even as her blush deepened, he could see the pain flit across her features, regret for not herself knowing. Quickly she changed the subject. "And your parents… _my_ parents!" she said, incredulous. "They knew this whole time. How did my mum keep her mouth shut? Oh, the things you said about my mum… and my dad calling you a nasty beast…."

"Despite what I might have said, I have always been fond of your mum," Mark said, "and your father's opinion has obviously changed… and that he asked me stand up as best man at their renewal of vows was a good sign that he's accepted me into the family again."

"Not to mention how ecstatic he was at our own wedding," she said with a sigh. She looked down, then went quiet again, reaching out to grasp his hand. He stared at the band on her finger, a perfect match to the heirloom engagement ring it nestled against. "I'm so sorry," she said after a stretch, apparently staring at the rings herself, before offering a light yet joyless laugh. "Strange."

"What is?" he asked, but thought wryly, _What isn't?_

"When Peter asked me to marry him—" His heart caught in his throat a little as she said this. "—I couldn't accept, and I never could pin down why it didn't feel right." She smiled a little, looking up again, which undid the moment of panic he'd had and completely overjoyed him. "Maybe I knew somehow I was already engaged."

He smiled, too, then drew her close, guided her face up to his for a kiss. When he pulled away, she continued, "And the other men I dated here and there—and of course Daniel, whom I fancied I loved—" He wondered what his expression had done, for at that moment she paused to chuckle. "I mean I just always found it odd that no man seemed quite right for me. I guess it was 'cause they weren't you."

With a light, relieved laugh, he got to his feet, and tugged her up as well. He didn't know if it was truly possible for her to subconsciously still harbour memories of him, of their relationship, but he liked to think it was. "Do you still have it?" she asked, perplexing him before she elaborated, "The photo, the one of us in Barcelona?"

He nodded, reached into his back pocket, pulled out the wallet. There, folded carefully in half, was the picture. He watched her face as she studied it, as her eyes misted over. "You look so handsome," she said, then chuckled; "I look so pretty… and so _young_." She smiled then looked up at him. "We look so happy."

"We were," he said. "We _are_."

Without further words he took her into his arms and just stood there holding her, feeling the burden of a lifetime lifting. There would be no more dancing around that shared past, no more avoiding touchy subjects… and maybe even as time went by, he could tell her all the details he'd forgotten even still that night.

He felt like he had all the time in the world now.

………

She wasn't there.

The realisation struck him as he reached to her side of the bed to find not her sleeping form but only a rumpled duvet and empty pillow. He reached quickly for the lamp on his bedside table, switching it on, confirming with his eyes what his hands had revealed to him.

"Bridget?" he called out for her.

He was met not with silence, but sound; he pushed back his covers, slipped into his robe, and went to find its source. His suspicions were correct. She was in the same back room where the box had tumbled down and spilled its secrets. She hadn't bothered to dress in a robe and was sitting in the middle of the floor, completely nude, hunched over and rocking with sobs; in her lap was what he recognised to be one of her journals.

"Bridget?" he asked again, very gently, striving to remain strong for her.

"Why, Mark?" she asked. "Why can I read and read this and nothing? Nothing! _Nothing_ comes back! I want to know. _I want to know._ I want to bloody remember. Let me keep reading and I know it'll come back. Just let me. Let me read."

"Darling—" he said, extending his hand to her. She whipped her head around, looking very angry as she recoiled from him.

"No!" she said insistently. "Let me read! Let me read."

"Bridget," he said firmly, crouching beside her, slowly reaching for the diary in the hopes of slipping it away and closing it. "You aren't going to remember. They deleted the memories. Gone. Not recoverable. Please, love. Come back to bed."

She turned so that the diary was out of his reach. "I know if I try hard enough I can remember—"

"You can't."

"—why I did it," she finished, erupting into tears again. "I want to know why I did it!"

He stared at her, overwhelmed with a sense of failure, of futility; there was nothing he could do to restore the past for her, no comfort he could offer to her, no answers he could give to her. He did not want to leave her by herself in this lonely room, but he did not want to deny her this regardless of how pointless it ultimately would be.

"Bring it to bed," he said quietly. "I'll sit with you while you read."

At that she turned her reddened eyes to him, then slowly, surely, began to nod.

After helping her to her feet—she insisted on carrying the diary herself—he climbed back into bed, and she got in beside him. He pulled her so she was leaning up against him, his arm around her, and she continued to read. It was not too long after they settled in that she had very clearly fallen to sleep, her head tipped to the side, the diary falling from her hand. Gingerly he slipped it off of her lap, kissed her on the top of the head, then closed his eyes, torn about what he could possibly do next.

By morning he would have his answer.

………

He practically bounded out of bed then went downstairs to his office, flipped open his laptop, brought up a browser window, and began searching for the one place that could possibly give her the answers she so desperately wanted.

Not only were they still in business, but they now had offices worldwide. With a shaky hand, he dialled the number for their London office and waited for someone to pick up.

"Good morning. Lacuna," said the female voice on the line.

His voice was pure steel, commanding, "I would like to speak to Dr Howard Mierzwiak. _Now_."

He was met with a long silence. "Your name, sir?"

He told her.

"Please hold."

Before he had a chance to reply, she was gone, replaced by soothing instrumental music. He held for what seemed like forever until the music abruptly stopped.

"Mark Darcy," he said in wonderment. "Now there's a name I haven't heard in a while."

"So you remember me?"

"Of course I remember you," said the doctor. "Only one in all my years who refused the procedure when their partner had had it done. If you wanted to make an appointment, Mark, you could have booked through the recep—"

"No," said Mark. "I'm calling because I need a favour of you."

"Of me?"

"Yes. You remember Bridget Jones?"

"As well as I remember you." His tone darkened with suspicion as he asked, "Why do you ask?"

"We just got married."

The doctor said nothing.

"She knows," Mark went on. "She found a box of things and—"

"Mr Darcy," he interrupted sternly. "I thought I'd made it perfectly plain that discussion of the past—"

"Don't lecture me," he continued before the doctor could get a full head of steam building. "I thought I'd had all of the boxes in storage, her things, her old computer… I guess I missed one. Maybe I missed it on purpose, I don't know; maybe subconsciously I wanted her to find it. In any case, she knows. And I need your help."

"I told you," he said. "We delete the memories. They can't be brought back."

"I know," Mark said. "But you have something in your possession that neither of us have. What she told you when she got there. I think she needs to see it."

Dr Mierzwiak exhaled loudly. He clearly knew what Mark was asking for: the video of her, the interview prior to the procedure. "We've never had a request like this before. I don't know if we have any way to be able to accommodate you in this."

Mark knew they did not want to be legally responsible for the ramifications of allowing a client to see their old self prior to the procedure. He'd expected as much. "I'll sign whatever you want me to sign, as long as we can walk out of your office with a copy of the recording in hand."

The silence told Mark that Howard Mierzwiak was thinking about it. "Don't come until the afternoon," he said at last. "And she'll have to come with you. She will have to sign for it."

Mark agreed, then hung up the phone, returning upstairs to the bedroom. She was still asleep, and he was not tempted to wake her yet. They had been up very late, with his recounting their history; he had no idea how long she'd been up again before he'd awakened and found her.

………

"I don't remember this place, either," she said as they stood before the iron gates of Lacuna. "If I try to think back to that year it's all kind of a blur."

He was holding her hand, and at this squeezed it tight. "Not having any doubts, are you?"

She shook her head. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous, though."

"I know."

In unison they went forward; he pushed the gate aside and they headed up the walk. "It's lovely here," she said, and she was right. The landscaping, the statuary, was every bit as beautiful as it had been when he'd last visited almost nine years prior. He supposed it was important that the place be as peaceful as possible, particularly if people were coming here to rid themselves of an unpleasant or painful past.

Mark pushed the door open for her. Tentatively she stepped into the foyer. The sound of their shoes on the parquet floor caught the attention of the young woman behind the front desk. Mark was not surprised to see it was not the same girl from before. It wasn't the same desk as before, either; this one elevated the seated receptionist up to eye level with Bridget. Behind the counter was Candace (so proclaimed the nameplate), who couldn't have been more than twenty-five. She smiled brightly at them, then reached for her mouse, glancing to the computer screen. Idly, Mark wondered if his grasping Mary's wrist, reading the appointment book over the edge of her desk, had had anything to do with the changed reception area. "You must be Bridget," chirped Candace. "The doctor will be down for you momentarily." He watched as she pressed a button on the telephone.

There was a pair of chairs there; he motioned for her to take one. She shook her head. "I can't," she said. "I'm too wound up."

He put his hand on her shoulder, preparing to say a comforting word, when she pulled herself into his arms. He embraced her in return.

"You don't have to say anything," she whispered as if anticipating him. It wouldn't have surprised him.

"Well, hello."

Mark wondered if the man wore rubber-soled shoes, so quiet was his approach; he knew the doctor's voice, though, and drew back to look at him. The man had definitely aged quite a lot in the time since he'd last seen him; his hair had gone very silver, the lines in his face had deepened, and he had put on at least a stone. "Dr Mierzwiak."

"Mr Darcy, sir. And Miss Jones. Or, if I'm not mistaken, Mrs Darcy?"

She smiled almost demurely. "Yes, that's right."

"You're looking very unlike the last time I saw you," he said, taking a step and holding his arm out to indicate they should walk towards his office. Mark remembered the way. "Much different circumstances though. Then again, you don't remember that."

"No."

They stopped before his door, which was ajar.

"Please, go in," he said. Two chairs had been placed before his desk. One had clearly been brought in from another room, as it did not match the other. "You'll have to forgive me, ma'am. I don't usually talk to two people at a time, and I'm certainly not used to talking to my patients after the procedure. It's never really happened before."

"Never?"

He shook his head. "No." He sat behind his desk. "So I understand you're here today for your pre-procedure interview."

A chill ran down Mark's spine; he was quick to correct, "To pick up the recording of her interview."

"Yes, yes, of course," the doctor said, chuckling awkwardly; "I suppose it did sound like—well, never mind." He looked to Bridget, becoming serious in an instant. "You do understand that we cannot be held responsible for what viewing this may do to you."

For the first time she looked not just nervous, but scared. "You don't think it will be bad, do you?"

"I honestly don't know," he said. "This is new ground for us. We have not had a client request one before."

"Oh." She turned back to look at Mark, a thousand questions in her eyes.

"I am confident it'll be all right," he said, meeting her gaze without flinching. "You took the initial news very well. I think this is what you need to fully heal: to know your own motivations for doing this so that you—_we_—can have closure."

"Even still," said the doctor, "if you'll kindly sign this document our lawyer has drawn up—feel free to inspect it, Mr Darcy, as I'm sure you will—I'll give you the disc."

She looked to Mark, then to the doctor again, as Mark took the paper from Mierzwiak's hand. He read it over carefully. It was a standard liability disclaimer, no verbal trickery or deceit, with a promise to keep the contents private to all but the two of them. He read it again to be sure, then nodded as he handed it to her.

"It's all right," he said.

With a trembling hand she took a pen from the desk and signed her name to the paper.

"Mr Darcy, sir, as her legal husband, I must ask you to sign as well."

He understood. He could not hold them liable on her behalf should something go horribly wrong.

"Well, that's it then." He pulled a desk drawer open, then took out a manila envelope with a square of plastic inside, undoubtedly the recording on DVD. "Mr Darcy, you'll be watching with her?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

Mierzwiak nodded. "That does reassure me," he said.

………

They went directly home, but instead of rushing to the telly and popping the disc in, they went about the rest of the afternoon as if it were any ordinary day. They made supper together as they did most nights, though the preparation was punctuated by a pervasive silence.

Mark tried desperately not to think of it as one last supper together.

She set her fork down when she was done eating, then slowly raised her eyes to look at him. "Well," she said. "No time like the present."

He tried to offer a sincere smile. "I suppose we can have dessert afterwards."

"It'll keep," she said, rising from the chair.

She took a seat as he set the disc into the tray. He joined her, taking her hand, as the video started.

"The time is two-thirty-seven a.m., on the eleventh of July, 1996." It was the doctor's voice. The screen was dark, but was quickly illuminated by the flip of a light switch. What was revealed was a surprising scene even to Mark, causing a flood of memories from that night to rush to the forefront. He heard Bridget gasp from beside him.

There was a table, and to the right of the screen, dressed in that gorgeous blue Valentino dress he had bought her so long ago and a cardigan wrapped around her that was clearly far too large for her, sat Bridget. Her hair, which had been so prettily coiffed earlier that same evening, was unkempt and tousled. She was wringing her hands. Her face was puffy and red from crying.

"For the record," said the doctor's voice from just off-screen, "your name."

"Do I have to look into a camera?"

"No. Your name."

"Bridget Jones." Her voice was quiet, hollow.

"Your age?"

"Twenty-four."

A pause, then: "What brings you to Lacuna today?"

She sniffed. "It's all been a mistake. I need to forget everything."

"What's been a mistake?"

"Me in his life. I've ruined it for him." She started to cry all over again. "I'm a burden."

A hand, an arm with a lab coat sleeve, came into the picture with a box of tissues, which she gratefully accepted.

"Sorry," she said, sniffing again, dabbing her eyes.

From next to him on the sofa, present-day Bridget sniffed, too.

"Please explain who you mean by 'him'."

On the screen, Bridget sighed heavily. Her voice was gravelly, the tears were still flowing, as she twisted a loose lock of hair around her index finger. "Mark Darcy. My… well, he's my fiancé, but… we've known each other all my life. He's my best friend, he's everything to me; the most honest person I know and he has never lied to me… and he said it was all a mistake. This is my only option." She looked down, covering her face with her hands. "He's better off without me. It'll just be easier to let him go if I can't remember him. I'm just holding him back, keeping him tied to the past. Weighing him down. And I love him too much to do that to him. Without me he can be what he's meant to be."

"Does he feel the same way?"

He watched the video-image Bridget press her thumbs into the corners of her eyes as if to staunch further tears, rocking back and forth in her seat a little. At last she spoke, taking her thumbs away, staring in the direction the camera. Her voice was flat but trembling with controlled emotion. "He doesn't want anything to do with me anyway. It's really what's best for everyone."

The doctor was silent again. Mark could hear the scratch of a pen. "You know this can't be reversed."

She nodded, fronds of hair swaying slightly as she did so. "We need to do this now," she said, her voice becoming stronger, angrier. "Do you understand? Now."

"You're doing this of your own free will?" he asked.

"Yes."

"You don't want to think about this?"

"No, dammit." She exhaled loudly. "There's no other way. This is how it has to be." She began sobbing again, asking weakly, "So tell me what's next?"

"Ah, yes," the doctor said. He must have stood, because Bridget's eyes tracked upwards as if watching him rise. "We'll want to—oh, wait. I need to turn off the recorder. One moment."

The screen winked out to black. The room went silent. Mark felt completely shaken and unable to breathe. For so long he'd wanted to know, and now that he did—

It hadn't been that she didn't love him, or that she was angry at him; rather quite the opposite: because she loved him as much as she had, because she had taken his words so much to heart that she thought he no longer loved her, she was doing what she thought was best for him and his career, however misguided the action was.

It's what she thought he'd wanted.

"It's all my fault," he said at last, his throat tight with emotion. "I'm so sorry."

"No."

"No?" he asked, surprised.

"I was a bloody selfish, stupid girl," she said. "_Oh!_" At that she let out almost a wail, bringing her hands to her face, her shoulders rocking. He was, in all honesty, too stupefied to say anything further at that moment, so he merely turned and pulled her to sit on his lap, taking her into a tight embrace, cradling the back of her head with his hand. Again how he wished he'd had the chance to tell her that she was far more important than any career advancement.

After many moments in this silence, he said quietly, "You were anything but selfish. You did it because you thought it's what I wanted. I'm so sorry."

"No, Mark, stop being a martyr; it's my fault," she replied, her voice weak and weary. "I should have realised you were just frustrated and tired, and didn't really mean what you said."

He pulled away, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her. In his mind there was no doubt he was responsible. There was, however, no point in dwelling on what had passed, since nothing would change it; what mattered was that the question he'd had for so long had been answered, regardless of how painful that answer was—and more importantly, she would get closure for herself. He murmured, "I'm only glad I was able to win you back." He took in a deep breath. "I was so afraid that you could never love me again the way you once did."

"I can't imagine loving you more," she replied, holding on to him, pressing her fingers so tightly into his back her fingertips must have been white.

He was happy to just sit there and hold her, comfort her, rocking ever so slightly, feeling her nestled into him. He could feel the clouds lifting, the storm passing, and he pressed a kiss into her blonde hair.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly. "This has all been a big shock."

He could feel her nod against him. "I think so," she said. She wasn't crying anymore, which he took as a good sign. "I just wish I could undo it."

"Wish it could be undone too," he said. "But that isn't going to happen, and we cannot live mired in regret. We have each other now, and that's what matters."

She pushed back to look at him. "I want to hear you say you forgive me."

"Bridget, it was _my fault_—"

"Mark," she said firmly. "Say it."

"On one condition."

She raised an eyebrow.

"You have to say you forgive me too."

She pursed her lips, then nodded slightly.

They each said it at the same time—"I forgive you"—and as a result he actually saw a smile pass her lips, heard a chuckle bubble low in her throat, before she hugged him again. Oddly, though he did not blame her for the actions she'd taken, he felt better for having said it… and having heard it.

………

When he woke the next morning, he found she had already roused. She was not, however, gazing at him and willing him into wakefulness as was the norm, but lying there, staring at the ceiling, brows pulled slightly together. It was barely morning; the light said as much.

For a split second he was alarmed, that she'd perhaps finally had a bad reaction to the previous two days and had gone catatonic, until her eyes moved to meet his. "Darling," he said softly. "Are you all right?"

"Mmm," she said. "Had a very strange dream."

"Oh?" he asked, pushing himself closer to snuggle up to her, kissing her cheek before resting his head on the pillow next to hers.

"Yeah," she said. "I dreamt I was young, like ten or so, and I was with you, and you were holding my hand as we walked to the candy shop… and I was terribly upset that they were out of those wonderful red Swedish fish. So instead you offered to buy me—"

"Jelly Babies," he said, his voice a papery gasp.

"Yes!" She turned over to look at him. "That's it exactly."

"And you said you were so traumatised," he went on, speaking slowly so not to be at all misunderstood, "that you didn't think you could go on without Dairy Milk, too."

She pushed herself up, her mouth slightly open, staring down at him. "How did you—"

It was then she must have realised what he already had: it had not been a dream. It was a memory. As she began to describe it, he recollected it happening like it was yesterday.

"It was… It was your birthday," she said, her voice trembling. "And it was warm, and you came by to take me for a treat with some of your birthday money."

"Yes." He sat up as well. He did not know what was happening. Her memories were supposed to have been gone, forever wiped from existence. And yet… what she was describing had actually happened on his fourteenth birthday. It had happened, and she was remembering it.

"But your bicycle had a flat tyre."

"So we had to walk."

"And it started to rain on the way back to my—oh! Mark!" She brought her hands to her face to cover her mouth. The tears she began to shed were happy ones, or at least bittersweet. "I had a crush on you even then!"

He smiled, remembering her telling him as such. "I know," he said, pulling her into his arms, kissing her on the lips, tears in his own eyes.

"Oh," she said again, then buried her face into his neck. After a few moments, she said something else, but her voice was too muffled for him to understand.

"What?" he asked tenderly.

She pulled back, sat up, still looking happy, though her brows were drawn together. "Pale cream silk. Or maybe pink. No, no. It's a pink ribbon, right along here." She ran her thumb across her bust line. "And I'm looking at myself in a mirror… in a bathroom… and I'm wearing this beautiful thing with a robe and…" Her concentration deepened. "…brushing my hair, so much hair, and God, I'm nervous as hell, 'cause my hands are shaking…"

He blinked rapidly in his astonishment.

"Oh!" She blazed red with colour, tears spilling over onto her cheeks again as she smiled. "Oh my God! That was…" She hiccoughed a laugh, covering her mouth with her hands again. "Our big night, our… first time. New Year's. In the flat."

"Yes," he breathed, raising his hand to dry her cheek with his thumb. "Yes, darling."

"Can we go see the flat again? Do your parents still own it?"

He felt tears in his own eyes. "We can go whenever you like."

"The flat… and you…" She began to laugh again. "In the flat, oh, I just remembered the look on that constable's face when he realised—God, no wonder he thought I was a kid, with those bloody long braids…" Her face slid into a slight frown. "And you… yelling at me for not taking the police seriously. You made me feel two inches high."

He bent and kissed her. "I hope by this point I'm forgiven."

"Of course." She smiled. "Some things haven't changed at all; always watching out for me, longer than I could have ever dreamed." She met his eyes. "They're all so vivid and wonderful, and, happy or sad, I want them back. I want them all back."

Mark did not know why this was happening, did not know if the video had spurred something in her; if the resolution to (or forgiveness for) their near-decade long schism had removed a mental block; if the procedure itself had not been as thorough due to the usual preparations not having been taken; or if it was the result of a combination of all of these things. He knew he would speculate for some time to come. He would not question it too thoroughly, though. As the minutes, hours, days passed, as another memory returned to her, he felt blessed; each one that did, good or bad, was like a gift. He hoped in time they would all return, but he knew he would be grateful, they would both be grateful, with whatever they got.


	29. Epilogue

**Tabula Rasa**

By S. Faith, © 2009, 2010

Total words: 146,260.  
This part: 326.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.

* * *

_Epilogue_

She wasn't there.

He sat up, called out her name. He got no response. He pushed back the covers and padded out of the bedroom to find her. "Bridget?" he called again. Still no answer.

He could see a faint light from the first floor; she was in the sitting room, but the light was too steady, too weak to be the telly. Furrowing his brows, he went down to her, found her sitting at her laptop in the otherwise dark room, her eyes fixed on the screen, wide and unblinking.

"What are you doing?" he asked sleepily.

"I found this CD earlier," she said, holding it up; for the last week or so, they had been sorting through her things brought out of storage. He knew exactly what was on that disc, labelled only with a _B_ in his own handwriting. "I meant to look at it, then forgot, then woke and couldn't sleep. Only one file on there, and it was called—"

"'Novel!!'," he supplied. "With two exclamation points."

"Yes," she said, her eyes not leaving the screen, still scanning back and forth. "The novel I was writing."

He nodded, then added, "Yes. Were you reading it?"

"I was," she said. "I stopped."

"Why?"

She looked up at him at last. "I didn't need to read anymore," she said. "I started to write."

He blinked rapidly in his disbelief. "You what?"

"Mark, I _remember_," she said, a grin spreading across her face. "I remember how it ends."

She resumed typing away like mad on the laptop's keyboard, attention completely focused on the screen; seeing her so passionately engaged in something she had loved so much took his breath away in a rush, and he felt tears flooding his eyes as he smiled broadly. He sat beside her, taking her roughly in his arms, surprising her. "Oh, love," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "you can finally write the end of the story."

_The end._


End file.
